rrv  J. 


0  The  introduction  took  place  after  the  other  guesLs  had 
left  the  room.  Immediately  the  embarrassed  master  of  cere- 
monies took  to  his  heels.  Betty  and  Gathewe  stood  alone" 


THE  MAN  WITH 
THREE  NAMES 


BY 
HAROLD  MAC  GRATH 

Author  of 

"The  Man  on  the  Box" 

"The  Private  Wire  to  Washington" 

"The  Yellow  Typhoon,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  RALPH  FALLEN  COLEMAN 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,    1919,   BY   THE  BED   BOOK  CORPORATION 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"The  introduction  took  place  after  the  other 
guests  had  left  the  room  .  .  .  Betty 
and  Cathewe  stood  alone"  .  .  Frontispiece 

(See  page  228) 

PAGE 

*  'Oh,  Nancy  ...  if  I  could  only 
stamp  out  the  thought  of  him' '  ...  58 

"Cathewe  saw  Betty  frequently  .  .  .  she 
persisted  in  entering  every  dream  he  had"  122 

"She  crept  back  into  his  arms,  all  her  mis- 
chief gone  .  .  .  *Love  me  always  like 
that'"  .  282 


2228430 


THE  MAN  WITH  THREE  NAMES 


The  Man  With  Three  Names 

CHAPTER  I 

THEY  say — the  old  wives — that  the  soul  of 
Galahad  will  never  take  wing  because,  on 
the  day  of  his  physical  death,  the  white 
soul  of  him  broke  into  infinitesimal  pieces.  This 
will  no  doubt  greatly  astonish  the  benevolent 
shades  of  Walter  Map  and  Sir  Thomas  Mallory. 
But  trust  old  wives  to  know  what  they  are  talking 
about.  And  they  proceed  to  add  another  amazing 
fact:  that  these  floating  particles  find  lodgment  in 
the  hearts  of  young  men,  die  there,  or  grow  ripely 
according  to  the  quality  of  the  soil.  For  me,  this 
remarkable  information  clears  up  a  lot  of  fog.  I 
understand  now  why  Youth  steps  forward  so 
bravely  and  confidently  to  admonish  a  naughty 
world.  'Tis  the  leaven  of  Sir  Galahad. 

Once  upon  a  time,  far  away  in  the  Golden  Age — 
as  far  away  as  the  summer  of  nineteen  hundred 
and  twelve — when  Mars,  grim  and  bloody,  was 
only  grumbling  in  his  sleep,  there  sailed  from 

3 


4  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Liverpool  a  great  and  seemly  ship.  That  her 
maritime  bones  are  disintegrating  on  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  at  this  moment  has  no  exact  bearing  upon 
this  tale.  For  it  is  not  a  war  story;  it  is  not  even 
predicated  upon  war;  but  without  that  lurid  sky 
in  the  East,  a  certain  good  fairy  might  have  passed 
to  and  fro  without  being  recognized. 

Naturally,  before  a  ship  may  put  to  sea,  pas- 
sengers have  to  come  aboard.  And  there  is  always 
some  confusion  when  visitors  are  ordered  ashore. 
The  line  of  passengers  surging  up  the  first-class 
gangplank  paused.  Doubtless  somebody  forward 
had  dropped  a  parcel. 

A  young  man,  sartorially  correct  from  his  tan 
shoes  to  the  mellow  panama  on  his  beautifully 
modelled  head,  craned  his  straight  columnar  neck 
impatiently.  But  of  course  he  could  not  see  any- 
thing. Suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  the  odour 
of  violets:  '  It  came  from  behind;  so  he  turned  his 
head. 

Supposing  your  consciousness  had  been  filled  for 
hours  with  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face.  Say 
that  you  had  seen  it  but  once  for  the  duration  of  a 
dinner  hour,  at  a  table  half  way  across  the  huge 
dining  room  of  the  Savoy,  and  you  knew  that  you 
would  never  forget  it.  Supposing  you  had  built 
an  airy  romance  during  that  hour:  an  adventure 
wherein  you  rescued  her  from  an  unknown  danger, 


The  Man  With  Three  Names  5 

fell  in  love  with  her  and  married  her.  Supposing 
you  had  been  all  alone  in  mighty  London  that 
night,  with  no  place  to  go,  with  a  heart  which  was 
heavy  with  bitterness  because  fate  had  dealt  you 
marked  cards  in  the  game  of  life  and  cheated  you 
abominably;  and  on  top  of  all  this,  a  super- 
imagination  which  is  given  only  to  genius.  And 
then,  by  a  mere  twist  of  the  head,  to  see  that  face 
again  but  three  spans  away  from  yours ! 

Some  men  are  fortunate;  they  know  exactly 
what  they  want  the  moment  they  see  it.  In- 
stantly this  young  man  knew  that  one  of  life's 
great  problems  was  solved.  This  was  the  girl. 
Somewhere,  somehow,  he  was  going  to  meet  her. 
The  mere  beauty  of  her  face  would  not  have 
trapped  his  fancy  and  held  it.  He  had  a  peculiar 
gift,  this  odd  young  man,  of  plunging  his  glance 
through  human  masks  and  getting  glimpses  of 
souls.  And  he  had  seen  at  once  that  this  young 
woman  had  a  soul  quite  as  beautiful  as  her  face. 
This  faculty  was  occult;  he  had  always  possessed 
it,  and  he  had  long  since  given  up  trying  to  analyze 
the  gift. 

She  was  lovely.  That  was  the  word.  He  knew 
that  lovely  was  a  universe  all  by  itself;  for  it  em- 
bodied beauty  and  intellect,  valour  and  tender- 
ness, youth  and  purity.  Being  a  poet  among  other 
things,  he  knew  that  the  word  was  the  despair  of 


6  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

poetical  inkpots;  it  was  rhymeless.  A  happy 
word;  it  possessed  the  tender  aloofness  of  the 
evening  star  and  defied  rhetorical  abuse. 

The  westering  sun  was  in  her  eyes;  thus,  she  was 
unconscious  of  the  amazed  scrutiny  of  the  young 
man  in  front.  She  saw  only  a  nebulous  shadow. 
Immediately  he  called  her  the  girl  with  the  golden 
eyes.  This,  however,  was  only  a  flight  of  poetical 
fancy.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  her  eyes  were  intensely 
blue;  but  shooting  out  from  the  pupil  to  the  rim  of 
the  iris  were  fine  little  threads  of  gold  such  as  one 
sees  in  lapis  lazuli. 

The  line  began  to  move  again.  The  young  man 
had  no  plan  regarding  his  future  procedure;  he 
would  need  an  hour  or  two  of  solitude  for  the 
formation  of  this.  He  was  going  to  marry  her  in 
the  end;  that  much  was  definitely  settled.  That 
she  might  have  her  own  views  on  the  subject  was 
of  no  vital  importance. 

He  hurried  off  to  his  first-class  cabin,  stowed  his 
luggage,  changed;  then,  with  a  straw  suitcase  un- 
der his  arm,  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  steerage. 
For  he  had  work  to  do,  serious  work.  He  could 
have  lived  like  the  other  first-class  passengers,  in 
idleness  and  luxury;  but  he  was  always  in  earnest, 
whether  he  played  or  worked,  as  will  be  seen.  For 
six  days  he  was  determined  to  live  among  the 
steerage  passengers.  To  acquire  the  material  he 


The  Man  With  Three  Names  7 

needed  necessitated  contact,  not  casual  observa- 
tion. 

That  night,  as  he  leaned  against  the  rail — a 
thousand  ineffectual  plans  having  been  scrutinized 
and  rejected — he  permitted  a  whimsical  idea  to 
enter  his  head.  He  raised  his  face  toward  the  sum- 
mer moon  and  laughed.  Why  not?  To  approach 
the  affair  from  a  novel  and  unexpected  angle:  no 
winding  in  and  out,  no  foreground  to  traverse  with 
hesitant  step.  To  take  the  plunge  without  both- 
ering to  feel  the  water  with  his  fingers.  The  idea 
appealed  to  all  that  was  romantic  in  him.  Indeed, 
the  affair  would  serve  as  a  vent  for  that  bother- 
some strain  of  romanticism  that  was  always  under- 
mining his  serious  work.  What  a  queer,  contra- 
dictory codger  he  was !  Wanting  to  dig  down  into 
the  roots  of  things,  to  know  all  phases  of  life,  and 
yet  to  feel  the  eternal  tug  of  wings! 

Another  thought  lifted  its  head,  ugly  and  sin- 
ister; but  he  crushed  it  down,  smothered  it.  He 
had  a  right  to  happiness.  Muck  and  star-dust; 
but  the  muck  was  not  of  his  making,  and  the  star- 
dust  was  all  his  own. 

The  eyes  of  her!  The  beautiful  curve  of  her 
chin!  Like  a  bolt  of  lightning,  when  woman  had 
not  been  in  his  thoughts  at  all. 

After  all,  he  mused,  the  only  real  fun  in  life  was 
to  catch  at  some  whimsical  idea,  imprison  it  in  the 


8  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

heart,  and  then  follow  through.  Wasn't  that  the 
golden  text  of  all  true  adventurers?  Blindman's 
Buff,  with  sharp  edges  of  circumstances  barking 
your  shins  and  Irony  laughing  behind  your  back! 
And  the  charm  of  it  lay  in  the  fact  that  you  never 
could  tell  when  or  how  it  would  end. 

Her  name  was  Elizabeth  Mansfield,  and  they 
probably  called  her  Betty.  She  was  also  the 
daughter  of  Dunleigh  Mansfield.  That  put  a 
double  wall  around  her,  millions  and  social  pres- 
tige: tremendous  obstacles  which  should  have 
frightened  him  and  chilled  his  ardour,  whereas 
they  but  filled  him  with  elation. 

Crusaders  and  explorers  and  reformers  are 
unique  in  that  they  attack  an  ordinary  goal  in  an 
extraordinary  manner,  so  differently  from  the  or- 
dinary man's  way  that  they  become  the  object  of 
the  ordinary  man's  derision. 

Now  then,  this  young  man  was  a  crusader,  with 
an  ideal  quite  as  lofty  as  that  of  Peter  the  Hermit 
and  Walter  the  Penniless.  He  did  not  sally  forth 
joyously  with  chanting  and  banners;  he  would 
not  have  gone  forth  at  all  but  for  the  white  honesty 
of  his  soul.  He  had  inherited  this  obligation;  it 
had  been  thrust  upon  him  without  asking  his  leave. 
But  as  yet  he  wandered  in  a  maze:  doors  that  he 
could  not  open,  walls  that  he  could  not  scale, 
knowing  that  over  there  and  beyond  was  the  goal. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names  9 

His  sword  had  no  handle,  his  shiefd  no  grip.  The 
way  out,  the  way  out;  and  he  could  not  find  it.  He 
was  a  crusader  by  force  of  circumstance. 

And  here  a  little  eddy  of  sentiment  had  turned 
him  temporarily  from  the  search.  Love!  Why 
not?  He  accepted  it  with  the  spirit  of  incon- 
sequent recklessness.  Having  no  Cumsean  sibyl 
at  his  elbow,  he  could  not  foresee  that  this  little 
eddy  was  to  wear  a  breach  in  the  wall  for  him  to 
slip  through. 

As  he  climbed  into  his  smelly  bunk,  there  was 
but  one  idea  in  his  head — to  carry  the  outpost,  her 
father,  by  storm.  Two  things  were  possible. 
Either  Mansfield  would  listen  or  he  would  call  for  a 
deck-steward.  Anyhow,  to  put  it  to  the  touch ! 

Dunleigh  Mansfield  was  not  the  accepted  type  of 
the  steel  magnate.  He  had  not  come  out  of  no- 
where, from  nothing.  His  father  had  been  some- 
body, his  grandfather,  his  great-grandfather;  a 
race  of  gentlemen  born.  He  had  inherited  his 
steel  mills,  his  mines;  and  he  had  multiplied  their 
value  beyond  ordinary  computation.  He  might 
have  passed  for  an  elderly  beau  in  a  Pinero  drama : 
a  fine,  courtly  figure  of  a  man,  with  a  cold  hawky 
countenance,  quite  handsome,  with  scarcely  a  gray 
hair  in  his  head  though  he  was  fifty. 

He  was  standing  alone,  that  sunny  morning,  in 
the  corner  where  the  crossrail  joins  the  port.  He 


10  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

was,  fortunately  for  the  welfare  of  this  story,  in  an 
amiable  frame  of  mind.  The  cigar  he  was  smoking 
possessed  an  extremely  agreeable  flavour. 

"Mr.  Mansfield?" 

The  ironmonger  turned.  He  saw  a  hatless 
young  man  in  a  white  cotton  shirt,  open  at  the 
throat,  shiny  blue  serge  trousers  that  bagged  at 
the  knees,  and  a  pair  of  soiled  tennis  shoes. 

"lam  Mr.  Mansfield"— coldly. 

"I  wish  the  honour  of  paying  court  to  your 
daughter." 

Mansfield  was  not  quite  sure  he  had  heard 
aright.  "I  beg  pardon?" 

The  young  man  repeated  his  astounding  request. 

Stormy  words  burned  the  tip  of  Mansfield's 
tongue,  but  he  pressed  them  back  because  the  face 
he  looked  into  was  quite  as  handsome  and  hawky 
as  his  own.  He  saw  besides  a  mouth  as  tender  as  a 
young  mother's  and  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  that  at 
present  were  kindly  and  engaging.  Human  faces 
were  Dunleigh  Mansfield's  books.  He  recognized 
this  type :  the  brow  and  eye  of  a  dreamer,  the  nose 
and  jaw  of  a  fighting  man.  Here  was  a  young 
man  who  would  do  unexpected  things — thrust 
Sisyphus  aside  and  try  to  roll  the  stone  uphill  him- 
self. But  Betty? — he  asked  the  honour  to  pay 
court  to  Betty?  The  infernal  impudence!  A 
fellow  from  the  steerage,  for  all  his  good  looks. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          11 

Being  a  gentleman  born,  Mansfield's  face  did  not 
indicate  his  anger  and  indignation.  The  thing  was 
to  get  rid  of  the  bounder  without  creating  a  scene. 
"You  don't  look  insane,  young  man.  Are  you 
offering  me  a  pleasantry?  " 

" No,  Mr.  Mansfield.    I  was  never  more  serious." 
"You  have  perhaps  met  me  somewhere,  and  I 
have  forgotten?  " 

"I  have  never  met  you  before." 
"You  have  met  my  daughter,  then?  " 
"I  have  only  seen  her — once  as  we  came  up  the 
gangplank." 

"Ah!"  said  Mansfield,  as  if  this  information 
cleared  the  air  considerably.  A  doubt  began  to 
edge  into  his  mind.  This  was  some  kind  of  a  joke, 
possibly  a  fool  wager.  All  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  were  likely  to  pester  him  from  now  on, 
Betty  being  doubly  attractive.  But  this  was  out 
of  the  ordinary.  Why  not  temporize,  dig  in,  and 
find  out  what  lay  behind  this  weird  encounter? 
"You  might  tell  me  something  about  yourself  be- 
fore we  proceed,"  he  suggested. 

The  young  man  was  not  so  guileless  as  he  seemed; 
he  was,  at  present,  merely  the  possessor  of  a 
whimsical  idea.  He  sensed  the  irony,  the  mockery. 
Two  little  points  of  fire  appeared  in  his  eyes. 
Ordinarily  Mansfield  would  have  taken  warning 
from  the  young  man's  ease  and  lack  of  diffidence; 


12  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

but  his  perceptions  were  dulled  by  his  suppressed 
wrath  and  astonishment. 

"I  am  called  Brandon  Cathewe.  By  pro- 
fession I  am  a  writer."  He  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  I  have  a  little  money." 

"A  writer — with  a  little  money.  I  should  say 
that  that  was  quite  fortunate." 

The  young  man  who  called  himself  Brandon 
Cathewe  laughed.  "I  readily  understand.  The 
oddity  of  my  attack  amuses  you." 

"Frankly  it  does.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a 
point-blank  question.  Is  this  a  wager?  " 

"It  is  not,"  was  the  smileless  answer. 

"Unknown,  then,  either  to  myself  or  to  my 
daughter,  you  approach  me  with  the  request  to 
pay  her  court!"  Wrath  began  to  bubble  again. 
"I  should  say,  from  the  cut  of  your  clothes,  that 
you  came  from  the  steerage  and  are  trespassing  this 
deck.  You  are  perfectly  serious?" — with  a  vague 
hope  that  this  appeal  would  lift  a  corner  of  the  veil. 

"Perfectly  and  honourably  serious." 

Suddenly  there  leaped  into  Mansfield's  cold 
brain  an  idea,  savage  and  ironic.  Later  he  and 
Betty  would  have  a  hearty  laugh  over  this  idea. 
The  impudent  bounder ! 

"Brandon  Cathewe,"  he  mused.  "That  has  an 
Irish  lilt.  So  you  wish  to  pay  court  to  my  daugh- 
ter; object,  matrimony." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          13 

"With  your  permission." 

Hours  after  it  occurred  to  the  irate  millionaire 
that  while  the  young  scoundrel  had  been  respect- 
ful, he  had  never  employed  the  word  "sir." 

"Supposing  you  give  me  a  moment  or  two — for 
breath?" 

"I  am  an  American,  and  I  could  find  many 
ways — honourable — of  approaching  your  daughter. 
I  merely  took  that  course  which  is  customary." 

"Customary?"  repeated  the  ironmonger,  be- 
coming bewildered.  In  France  it  was  customary; 
but  this  fellow  was  from  the  States,  where  such  a 
procedure  was  anything  but  customary.  Mans- 
field puffed  rapidly;  his  perfecto  was  on  the  point 
of  going  out.  When  the  wrapper  began  to  curl 
again,  his  cold  eye  once  more  scrutinized  this 
amazing  young  man.  Hang  it,  the  scoundrel's  as- 
surance was  baffling.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  calm 
assurance  of  an  equal.  "It  is  needless  to  ask  if 
you  are  in  love  with  my  daughter." 

"Quite  needless.     I  am." 

"The  result  of  one  meeting;  coming  up  the 
gangplank?" 

"I  have  a  happy  faculty  of  knowing  what  I 
want." 

"And  of  getting  it?" — mockingly. 

"Not  always,  to  be  sure,  but  generally.     No. 
doubt  it  sounds  ridiculous  to  you;  but  the  two  times 


14  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

I  have  seen  your  daughter  convince  me  that  she 
is  the  one  woman.  Her  beauty  is  the  least  of  her." 

An  odd  statement,  thought  Mansfield.  "You 
have  heard  of  the  city  of  Bannister?  " 

"Very  few  people  in  America  have  not." 

"Very  good.  I  grant  you  permission  to  pay 
court  to  my  daughter,  conditionally.  I'll  waive 
my  right  to  inquire  about  your  family  and  your 
bank  accounts.  My  terms  are,  go  to  Bannister 
and  make  good;  then  come  to  me.  I  will  introduce 
you  personally  to  my  daughter,  provided  she  is  not 
already  married  by  that  time." 

" On  the  word  of  a  gentleman?  " 

"On  the  word  of  a  gentleman."  Mansfield 
smiled.  As  if  it  mattered!  "Until  you  make 
good,  you  are  not  to  seek  in  any  manner  to  meet 
her.  She  is  not  to  know  that  such  a  person  as — 
er — Brandon  Cathewe  exists.  On  your  honour  as 
a  gentleman." 

"My  word  is  given." 

"Understand  me.  I  don't  mean  just  making 
some  money.  By  making  good  I  mean  that  you 
must  become  a  force  in  Bannister.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  am  not  going  to  keep  my  daughter  locked  up 
until  you  arrive.  Those  are  the  conditions,"  con- 
cluded Mansfield,  very  well  pleased  with  himself. 

"And  I  accept." 

"You— what?" 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          15 

"Accept.  But  on  your  part  you  must  agree  to 
give  me  fair  play." 

"Fair  play?"  Why,  the  bounder  did  not  see 
the  joke!  "What  do  you  mean  by  fair  play?" 

"You  will  say  nothing  to  your  daughter  of  this 
interview.  I  have  come  to  you  frankly  and  hon- 
ourably, and  I  ask  you  measure  for  measure.  If 
my  conduct — my  approach — seems  outlandish, 
bizarre,  it  is  because  I  am  not  afraid  to  ask  for 
something  I  desire.  I  love  your  daughter,  crazy 
as  the  statement  may  seem.  I'm  no  fool.  Your 
first  impulse  was  to  throw  me  over  the  rail.  Being 
a  gentleman,  you  reconsidered.  You  would  punish 
my  impertinence  by  placing  insurmountable  ob- 
stacles in  front  of  me.  I  have  accepted  these  con- 
ditions. If  I  fail,  you  will  never  hear  of  me.  Good 
morning!" 

The  young  man  seized  the  companion-ladder 
rails  and  swung  himself  to  the  main  deck  without 
touching  the  steps.  Immediately  he  disappeared. 

For  a  long  tune  Mansfield  stared  at  the  space 
between  the^canvased  railings  of  the  companion- 
ladder,  his  forehead  corrugated  and  his  eyebrows 
askew.  He  was  held  by  a  species  of  hypnosis. 
Accepted  the  conditions,  knowing  why  they  had 
been  offered !  Unabashed,  the  fellow  had  accepted 
conditions  which  on  the  face  of  them  were  insur- 
mountable! Mansfield  shrugged  away  the  spefl 


16  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

and  mentally  stepped  back  to  see  if  he  could  not 
get  another  angle  to  this  remarkable  encounter. 
A  blind  alley.  That  calm  assurance.  Mansfield 
knew  the  brand.  It  wasn't  the  cocksure  conceit 
of  youth;  lit  was  the  assurance  of  a  man  who 
knew,  first  off,  what  he  wanted.  It  was  incredible. 

He  flung  his  cigar  overboard  impatiently.  He 
became  aware  of  another  fact,  not  without  its 
measure  of  chagrin.  He  would  not  be  able  to 
laugh  with  Betty.  He  would  not  dare  tell  her.  The 
story,  literally  told,  might  seriously  intrigue  her, 
for  she  had  not  been  brought  up  like  the  average 
American  girl  of  wealth.  Sophistication  had  not 
set  a  curb  on  her  impulses.  She  was  worldly,  but 
she  was  real.  Besides,  she  was  romantic;  and  it 
would  never  do  to  let  her  interest  become  attracted 
by  the  beggar,  who  was  handsome  enough.  A 
colossal  joke  like  this,  and  he  must  remain  silent! 
Setting  a  trap,  he  now  found  himself  in  one.  But, 
pshaw!  Why  worry?  She  would  never  see  or 
hear  of  this  impertinent  young  jackanapes.  The 
incident  was  closed.  For  no  man  succeeded  in 
Bannister  except  by  the  express  permission  of  the 
man  who  ruled  it — Dunleigh  Mansfield. 

He  strode  away,  rarely  angry  with  himself  for 
not  having  summoned  a  deck-steward  at  the 
start  to  send  the  fellow  back  where  he  belonged — 
the  steerage.  But  did  he  belong  in  the  steerage? 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          17 

Mansfield  decided  to  consult  the  passenger  list; 
and  when  he  saw  the  fellow's  name  in  that  select 
directory,  the  fog  became  opaque.  But  all  at 
once  the  riddle  resolved  itself  into  translatable 
terms.  A  socialist!  A  writer  with  a  little  money ! 
A  Knight  of  flapdoodle,  an  innocuous  anarchist; 
the  evanishment  was  complete. 

That  night  at  dinner  he  was  astonished  to  find 
that  Betty  afforded  him  a  new  interest  in  life.  She 
was  desirable  of  men.  One  of  them  had  boldly 
stated  he  wanted  her — that  handsome  scallawag 
in  the  steerage.  Until  this  hour  the  child  had 
been  his  daughter,  nothing  more.  Now  she  was 
something  somebody  wanted.  She  had  a  value  of 
her  own.  Somebody  wanted  her;  and  her  father 
had  never  really  wanted  her.  True,  she  had  had 
for  him  the  quality  of  an  exquisite  toy;  but  nothing 
beyond  that.  Was  he  now  going  to  want  her  be- 
cause somebody  else  did? 

At  the  death  of  her  mother — fourteen  years  be- 
fore— Mansfield  had  sent  Betty  to  France.  She 
had  been  entrusted  to  the  care  of  an  aristocratic 
but  impoverished  French  family  (liberally  sup- 
plied with  funds  from  the  Mansfield  strong-box) 
because  he  had  not  known  exactly  what  to  do  with 
a  child.  If  he  kept  her  in  America  he  would  be 
compelled  to  neglect  her.  His  vast  business  in- 
terests and  his  wide  political  affiliations  required 


18  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

all  his  time.  He  was  like  the  eagle:  he  preferred 
to  fly  alone,  unhampered.  This  decision  was  due 
less  to  callousness  than  to  a  lack  of  paternal  in- 
stinct. It  was,  however,  wholly  selfish  as  an  in- 
spiration. Betty  would  be  in  most  excellent  hands 
and  he  would  be  free. 

The  affair  had  turned  out  very  well  in  some 
ways.  The  French  family  had  educated  her  as 
one  of  their  own.  Thus  she  had  escaped  contact 
with  that  European  froth  known  as  Society. 
Mansfield  had  instinctively  laid  down  one  law: 
she  was  never  to  be  permitted  to  forget  that  she 
was  an  American,  that  her  native  tongue  was 
English;  and  this  law  was  religiously  observed.  So, 
at  this  day,  Betty  was  an  American  girl  whose 
speech  was  full  of  quaint  and  charming  twists  and 
accents.  Her  education  had  been  finished  in 
Milan;  and  she  sang  exquisitely. 

Every  other  summer  Mansfield  had  gone  abroad 
and  given  her  grudgingly  two  weeks  of  his  precious 
time.  It  had  been  rather  a  bore.  Once  he  had 
brought  her  home  for  the  summer.  She  was  now 
making  her  second  trip.  In  a  year  or  so  she 
would  be  returning  for  good;  but  she  would  be 
old  enough  then  to  take  care  of  herself;  rule 
over  his  three  houses  and  grace  his  table.  She 
would  be  only  a  bit  of  backwater  at  the  side  of  the 
stream. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          19 

A«d  BOW,  somebody  wanted  her.  What  was 
it  that  young  crack-brain  had  said?  "Her  beauty 
is  the  least  of  her."  He  stared  at  his  daughter's 
profile  to  see  if  he,  too,  could  discover  what  there 
was  to  her  beyond  her  undeniable  beauty.  He 
became  unaccountably  thrilled  by  the  vanity  of 
possession.  The  greatest  pleasure  in  life  for 
him  was  to  possess  something  somebody  else 
wanted. 

While  he  invariably  dressed  with  the  taste  and 
the  exactitude  of  a  dandy,  he  cared  little  for  society. 
He  became  interested  in  a  woman  only  when  he 
found  she  was  useful.  Society  was  too  tame  an 
affair.  All  his  dreams  and  efforts  had  been  di- 
rected toward  one  end — power.  He  had  never 
really  loved  anything.  His  wife  had  been  merely 
an  ornament.  A  hard  man,  with  the  brilliancy  of 
a  diamond,  not  particularly  scrupulous  when  there 
was  an  objective  in  view. 

The  more  he  stared  at  his  daughter,  the  more 
convinced  he  was  that  she  was  quite  the  most 
beautiful  young  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  sur- 
passing even  her  mother.  She  was  unspoiled,  too. 
Her  charm  emanated  from  within;  it  was  innate, 
not  the  result  of  education  and  association.  He 
had  recognized  this  fact  subconsciously  some  days 
before;  now  it  was  clear.  And  she  had  a  new 
value:  somebody  wanted  her. 


20  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Daddy,  if  you  scowl  at  me  like  that.     .     .     ." 

"Was  I  scowling?  I  was  thinking.  Betty, 
you  are  very  beautiful,"  he  added. 

"Just  discover  it?" — a  little  wistfully. 

"No.  I  believe  it  has  been  sinking  in  for  some 
time.  Betty,  on  the  day  of  your  marriage  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  a  wonderful  joke." 

"  Why  can't  you  tell  me  now?  " 

"On  the  day  you  are  married." 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me ! " 

"No.  I  don't  believe  any  one  will  ever  laugh  at 
you,  Betty,  not  even  your  father." 

"You  embarrass  me,  Daddy,"  she  said,  gravely, 
"  when  you  look  at  me  like  that." 

"Haven't  I  just  discovered  you?" — lightly. 

She  thrilled.  This  handsome  father  of  hers  had 
always  been  to  her  a  kind  of  wonderful  god,  to  be 
admired  and  worshipped  from  afar,  not  to  be 
touched.  Now  he  was  often  taking  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  staring  into  her  face.  A  wild, 
fierce  exultation  filled  her  whenever  he  acted  thus. 
Was  he  beginning  to  care  a  little?  She  recalled  the 
formal  meetings  in  the  salon  of  the  old  chateau, 
the  cold  kiss  on  her  forehead,  the  perfunctory 
questions  about  her  studies.  "Mademoiselle's 
father  is  waiting  in  the  salon."  How  her  heart 
had  pounded  and  thundered  whenever  the  maid 
announced  this  fact! 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          21 

"I  am  piqued,"  she  said.  "Is  the  joke  so 
funny?" 

"On  your  wedding  day." 

"  But  will  it  keep  that  long?  " 

"On  that  day  it  will  be  perfectly  ripe.  Betty, 
have  you  ever  been  in  love?  " 

"Oh,  yes! "—brightly. 

"What?"  Mansfield  barked. 

"With  you!"— shyly. 

Every  morning  from  ten  until  twelve  and  every 
afternoon  from  two  until  five  Cathewe  stretched 
himself  out  on  the  sunny  hatch  and  wrote.  No 
one  bothered  him,  though  he  was  generally  sur- 
rounded. There  were  frequent  gaps  in  the  con- 
tinuity of  his  narrative.  During  these  gaps  he 
would  stare  at  the  rocking  horizon  without  seeing 
it. 

On  the  last  day  out  of  port  he  could  not  work  at 
all,  that  is,  with  results.  Bannister.  He  would 
have  to  throw  up  his  lucrative  editorial  work  in 
New  York  and  seek  out  that  inland  town.  There 
wasn't  a  soul  there  he  knew.  And  what  manner 
of  job  would  there  be  in  Bannister  for  him? — 
what  stepping-stone  to  power?  Tom  Fool!  For 
he  was  going  to  see  this  affair  through.  He  smiled 
ruefully.  Always  the  same;  there  did  not  seem  to 
be  the  least  hope.  Nothing  would  ever  cure  him 


22  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

> 

of  the  habit  of  taking  the  plunge  without  first  as- 
certaining whether  the  water  was  deep  or  shallow. 
All  any  one  had  to  do  was  to  dare  him.  Where 
the  dickens  was  this  adventure  going  to  lead  him? 

Of  course  Mansfield  viewed  the  affair  in  the 
light  of  a  huge  joke.  Apparently  no  human 
being  might  climb  over  the  wall  with  which  he 
had  surrounded  his  daughter.  But  unknown  to 
Dunleigh  Mansfield,  there  was  a  postern  gate 
to  this  wall.  Through  this  love  would  find  a 
way. 

A  writer — with  a  little  money!  He  laughed 
aloud,  ironically;  and  some  of  the  children  standing 
by  eyed  him  owlishly.  Could  he  honourably  offer 
love  to  any  woman — a  man  with  three  names? 

Now  then,  every  afternoon,  around  about  three, 
Betty  came  down  the  companion-ladder  to  the 
waist.  Her  father  always  stood  at  the  crossrail  on 
guard,  a  tolerant  expression  on  his  handsome  face. 
If  she  wanted  to  feed  goodies  to  these  wild  little 
pigs,  she  was  at  liberty  to  do  so.  She  had  rather 
curious  ideas,  and  later  he  would  undertake  to 
curb  them.  Invariably  she  carried  a  package  of 
cakes  and  fruit  and  nuts  which  she  distributed 
among  the  children  of  the  steerage.  At  first  they 
had  been  shy  and  suspicious — as  you  and  I  would 
have  been  had  an  angel  appeared  before  us  with 
manna.  But  now  they  swarmed  about  her  with 


The  Han  With  Three  Names          23 

that  trust  and  joyousness  which  are  peculiar  to 
children  and  puppies. 

I  doubt  if  she  ever  noticed  the  young  man  on  the 
hatch.  Perhaps  it  was  because  his  clothes  were 
of  the  same  nondescript  pattern  as  that  of  the  other 
steerage  passengers .  Let  us  strike  the  bell  at  once. 
Women — especially  young  women — rarely  look 
pointblank  into  a  man's  face  until  after  they  have 
covertly  inspected  his  clothes.  This  precaution- 
ary measure  is  not  necessarily  due  to  snobbishness; 
it  is  more  or  less  instinctive.  As  you  know,  they 
must  always  be  on  the  watch. 

To-day,  as  she  was  returning  to  the  ladder,  she 
dropped  something.  Instantly  the  young  man 
sprang  up  and  across  the  deck.  He  snatched  the 
filmy  bit  of  lace  and  cambric  just  as  the  wind 
threatened  to  carry  it  under  the  scupper. 

"Your  handkerchief,  miss,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you." 

If  the  face  she  saw  registered  itself  upon  her 
memory,  it  would  be  due  to  the  beautifully 
modelled  head.  She  continued  on  toward  the 
ladder,  mounted,  serenely  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  left  standing  by  the  rail  a  man  who 
was  one  day  to  make  her  heart  ache  dreadfully, 
who  was  to  hold  her  in  the  strangest  thrall  that 
ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  young  woman. 

Cathewe  smiled  up  at  Mansfield,  who  returned 


24          The  Man  With  Three  Names 

the  smile.  But  there  was  something  totally 
different  in  the  quality  of  those  two  smiles.  One 
was  boyish  and  whimsical;  the  other  was  sardonic. 
For  one  knew  life  in  theory  and  the  other  knew  it 
in  fact. 


CHAPTER  II 

ACROSS  the  shining  threads  of  steel — the 
railway  yard — a  man  ran  lightly,  with  the 
sure  foot  of  the  athlete.  He  wore  a  blue 
checkered  Mackinaw  and  a  woollen  cap  pulled 
down  over  his  ears.  Behind  lay  a  sinister  outline : 
chimneys  spouting  fire  and  black  smoke,  giant 
furnace  doors  opening  and  closing,  blinding  rivu- 
lets of /molten  metal.  Men,  with  the  aspect  of 
demons,  flitted  past  these  luminous  backgrounds. 
Beyond  the  runner  stood  rows  of  forlorn  tenements, 
frame  houses,  shacks,  evidently  his  objective. 
Farther  on  were  the  angry  waters  of  a  great  lake, 
baffled  by  the  huge  ice-floes  which  the  extreme 
cold  had  locked  and  riveted  anew.  For  it  was  zero 
weather,  despite  the  fact  that  there  was  little  snow 
visible.  The  fierce,  high  winds  generally  whipped 
the  snow  inland,  to  the  hills  south  of  the  city. 

It  was  the  drab  end  of  a  day  made  doubly  drab 
by  environment. 

The  runner,  nicely  measuring  the  distance  be- 
tween the  rails,  never  faltered.  He  was  in  a  hurry. 
At  any  moment  a  mile-long  freight  might  cut  him 
off.  When  at  length  he  leaped  across  the  last 

25 


26  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

rail,  under  the  very  nose  of  a  disgruntled  switch- 
engine  with  a  string  of  empties  rattling  behind,  the 
runner  was  fairly  well  spent. 

At  the  curb — to  be  precise,  the  ditch — in  front 
of  one  of  the  tenements,  before  which  ran  a  crumb- 
ling tar  walk,  stood  a  two-seated  runabout,  rusty 
and  battered,  but  as  faithful  as  a  mongrel  dog. 
Of  its  kind  it  was  a  mongrel.  It  was  seven  or 
eight  years  old  if  a  day.  It  had  been  added  to  at 
various  periods,  for  safety  and  convenience,  until 
there  wasn't  a  toe-hold  on  either  of  the  running 
boards,  for  the  batteries,  tanks,  and  tool-boxes  that 
cluttered  them. 

In  passing  I  might  say  that  in  the  city  of  Ban- 
nister this  ramshackle  vehicle  was  as  familiar  to 
the  sight  as  the  police- van  and  the  fire-engines. 
You  were  quite  as  likely  to  see  it  reposing  impu- 
dently before  some  handsome  mansion  on  Polygon 
Hill  as  here  in  Poverty  Row,  where,  in  truth,  it 
seemed  more  at  home. 

The  man  in  the  Mackinaw  paused  for  a  moment 
to  eye  this  car.  Though  he  was  panting  heavily,  a 
smile  parted  his  lips — a  tender  smile.  The  chariot 
of  Elijah.  God  bless  his  beautiful,  kindly  old  heart ! 

He  pushed  his  way  into  the  hall  of  the  tenement 
and  climbed  four  gloomy  and  smelly  flights  of 
stairs.  He  came  to  a  door,  but  he  did  not  bother 
to  knock.  He  opened  it  and  stepped  inside. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          27 

It  was  a  forlorn  room.  Whichever  way  you 
looked  you  saw  squares  and  triangles  of  lath  from 
which  the  plaster  had  fallen.  In  a  window  a 
newspaper  served  as  a  pane  of  glass.  The  sur- 
viving panes  were  dim  with  soot  and  cobwebs. 
At  the  side  of  a  dilapidated  iron  bed  sat  a  man  in  a 
fur-lined  overcoat,  the  collar  up  about  his  ears. 
He  wore  a  coonskin  cap.  On  the  floor  beside  his 
chair  was  a  long  black  satchel,  more  familiar  to 
women  and  children  than  to  men.  He  was 
Doctor  Maddox,  hale  and  hearty  at  sixty,  white 
of  hair  and  ruddy  countenance,  loved  by  dogs 
and  children  and  men  and  women.  But  there 
were  some  in  Bannister  who  feared  him,  for  he 
was  a  ruthless  enemy  of  dirt  and  disease  and 
inefficiency. 

On  the  bed,  under  a  tattered  sheet,  there  was  a 
body,  sinisterly  rigid  in  outline.  I  wonder  if  God 
ever  looks  down  upon  any  picture  more  forlorn  that 
death  in  poverty? 

"Dead?" 

"Yes,  son.  He  was  dead  when  I  got  back  from 
telephoning  you." 

"I  was  just  starting  out  for  a  tramp.  I  came  as 
fast  as  I  could.  How  did  it  happen?  " 

"He  was  old  and  slow  and  got  in  the  way  of  a 
swinging  crane.  There  wasn't  a  whole  bone  in 
his  body.  The  men  brought  him  here  on  an  im- 


28  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

provised  stretcher.     I  was  attending  another  case 
in  the  block." 

"Could  he  talk?" 

"He  mumbled  something  about  the  seventh 
plank  from  the  west  wall,  naming  you.  What's 
your  interest  in  him?  He  wasn't  a  Bannister 
man." 

"Human."  The  young  man  walked  over  to  the 
west  wall,  counted  off  six  planks  in  the  floor,  and 
pried  back  the  seventh.  From  the  cavity  he  ex- 
tracted a  bundle  of  papers.  "Doctor,  do  you 
know  what  has  doubled  Mansfield's  fortune  since 
the  war  began?" 

"What?" 

"Those  barbwire  machines.  The  man  on  the 
bed  there  was  the  inventor.  These  papers  are  the 
documents  in  the  case.  Is  there  nothing  sinister 
in  the  fact  that  he  lies  there  dead?  Why  should 
he  be  doing  manual  labour  at  three  dollars  the  day, 
working  at  a  kind  of  charity  job,  when  he  should 
have  had  all  the  comforts  of  life?  Think  of  him 
dying  in  bitterness  like  that!  Eighteen  dollars  the 
week,  with  the  music  of  his  own  creation  in  his  ears, 
day  after  day,  and  another  man  taking  all  the 
profits!" 

"You  mean  he  was  cheated  and  robbed?  " 

"Legally,  no;  morally,  yes." 

The  young  man  in  the  Mackinaw  went  over  to 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          29 

the  window,  rubbed  a  little  clearing,  and  stared  at 
the  great  drab  buildings  on  the  far  side  of  the  rail- 
way yard.  He  was  smooth-shaven,  anywhere  be- 
tween twenty-five  and  thirty-five:  one  of  those  for- 
tunate individuals  upon  whom  age  leaves  no  grinding 
impression.  A  fine  face,  gentle  and  scholarly;  but 
scrutiny  brought  forth  salients  which  would  have 
baffled  the  physiognomist  temporarily.  It  was  as 
if  one  gazed  at  a  composite  of  faces.  The  face  was 
clearly — even  beautifully — defined  until  you  began 
to  study  it;  then,  somehow,  it  escaped  you.  One 
moment  you  would  call  it  proud  and  hawky; 
in  the  next,  whimsical  and  lovable. 

The  doctor,  no  mean  physiognomist,  had  studied 
the  face  of  his  friend  for  nearly  three  years,  and 
still  he  could  not  put  a  positive  label  on  it.  Their 
paths  had  crossed  and  recrossed,  socially  and  pro- 
fessionally, a  thousand  times;  but  in  this  hour  the 
doctor  was  confronted  with  the  fact  that  this 
young  man  was  still  a  stranger.  What  he  knew  of 
Brandon  Cathewe  had  not  been  acquired  from  de- 
ductive sources;  he  had  gathered  his  information, 
such  as  it  was,  from  the  young  man's  acts.  He 
had  seen  him  tender  and  pitiful;  resolute  and  in- 
domitable; he  had  seen  him  happy-go-lucky,  a 
light  heart;  and  he  had  seen  him  ruthless  and 
terrible,  but  just.  There  was  something  elemental, 
primordial,  in  the  way  this  handsome  boy— his, 


30  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

years  did  not  matter — fitted  into  conditions.  And 
always  and  eternally  on  the  side  of  the  weak  and 
the  oppressed.  Sometimes  the  doctor  felt  that  he 
was  chatting  with  a  man  who  still  believed  in 
fairies. 

"Son,  have  you   anything  personally  against 
Dunleigh  Mansfield?  " 

"  I  hadn't  when  I  came  here  to  take  charge  of  the 
Herald.  I  came  to  Bannister  upon  an  almost 
unbelievable  adventure.  Some  day  I  may  tell  you 
about  that.  Often — when  I  have  time  to  think 
of  it — I'm  convinced  that  I  am  the  most  colossal 
fool  alive.  When  a  man  finds  his  foot  in  the  bog, 
what  does  he  do?  Yank  it  out.  As  for  me,  I  put 
in  both  feet  to  see  how  deep  it  is" — bitterly.  "No; 
at  the  start  I  had  nothing  against  Mansfield.  But 
for  three  years  I've  done  nothing  but  stumble  over 
cases  like  this:  mean  and  contemptible.  Cold- 
blooded, but  always  within  the  law.  What's  the 
object  in  piling  up  more  gold?  He  can't  count  his 
millions.  He  doesn't  need  money,  and  yet  he  robs 
a  man  like  this.  Look  at  the  gin-holes  he  draws 
revenue  from,  under  the  shelter  of  another  man's 
name !  Is  it  for  the  sport  of  the  thing?  The  whole 
town  is  under  his  thumb  politically.  The  elections 
are  farces.  W7hat's  his  idea?  " 

"Perhaps  his  underlings "  began  the  doctor. 

"No,  no.     He  alone  is  responsible.     No  mat- 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          31 

ter  where  he  is,  he  knows  what  is  going  on  here.  It 
was  only  by  a  miracle  that  we  pried  loose  his  grip 
on  the  Health  Department." 

"And  yet  he  gives  a  great  deal  to  charity." 

"  Ah,  charity !  His  distinguished  name  at  the  top 
of  the  column.  Trust  him  for  that.  There  is  no 
feel  in  charity  that  does  not  entail  some  sacrifice. 
What's  a  million  to  him?  He  doesn't  feel  it  any 
more  than  you  do  when  you  pass  out  two  coppers 
for  my  newspaper.  Charity!  He  gives  to  hos- 
pitals because  they  are  officered  by  the  prominent 
society  women  of  the  town.  He  builds  libraries 
where  the  poor  are  afraid  to  go.  A  playground 
where  the  children  can't  play  on  the  grass.  When 
we  started  to  clean  up  the  Health  Department,  he 
gave  himself  away  with  his  hullabaloo.  He  knew 
that  if  we  got  our  man  in,  we'd  soon  clean  up  these 
typhoid  pits.  Do  you  know  that  he  owns  all  these 
tenements  and  shacks  as  he  owns  the  gin-holes — 
under  the  cloak  of  another  man's  name?  He  gets 
his  perfumed  liquors  and  aromatic  tobaccos  out  of 
these  rat-traps." 

"And  the  queer  part  is,  he's  a  gentleman,  born 
and  bred."  The  doctor  wagged  his  head,  gravely. 

"And  there  it  is.  Had  he  come  up  from  the 
gutter,  one  could  understand.  But  he  is,  as  you 
say,  a  gentleman.  He  should  be  great,  whereas  he 
is  only  sordid." 


32  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"No;  I  shouldn't  call  him  sordid.  A  blind  spot. 
I  knew  him,  son,  as  a  youth.  There  was  none 
better,  but  he  began  to  change  when  he  took  hold 
of  the  mills.  There's  good  in  him,  if  one  could  find 
the  way  to  it." 

"I'm  going  to  make  a  try,"  replied  Cathewe, 
grimly,  "beginning  to-morrow." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do — print  this  story?" 
asked  the  doctor,  indicating  the  poor  broken  thing 
on  the  bed. 

"Yes.  I've  known  all  along  what  kind  of  a 
man  he  was.  But  I  dared  not  attack  him  until 
I'd  made  the  paper  a  go.  Now  I  can  start  the 
guns." 

"You're  a  queer  duck." 

"Because  I  want  to  help  the  under  dog?  Aren't 
you  always  helping  him  yourself?  How  am  I 
queer?" 

"Because  you  haven't  got  your  balance  yet,  son. 
The  way  to  do  is  to  go  along  without  letting  your 
hackles  rear  up  every  time  you  scent  a  wrong. 
Cure  the  wrong,  if  you  can.  Don't  go  smashing 
through  the  barbwire  when  there's  another  way 
around.  I  was  once  like  you;  but  I  am  old  and 
wise;  and  I  accomplish  much  more  these  days  by 
going  the  other  way  around.  You're  doing  a  lot 
of  good  in  this  town.  Don't  spoil  it.  Once  Mans- 
field recognizes  in  you  a  dangerous  enemy,  he  will 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          33 

snuff  you.  That's  why  I  don't  want  you  to  play 
your  hand  too  strongly." 

"Snuff  me?  I  pick  up  that  gauntlet,"  was  the 
truculent  retort.  "Before  I'm  through  I  promise 
to  render  Mansfield  impotent  for  future  harm.  I 
have  facts,  facts.  My  audience  has  learned  to 
trust  me;  and  they'll  believe  the  Herald.  I  am 
going  to  protect  these  poor  human  beings  who 
don't  know  how  to  fight  for  their  rights.  I  mean 
the  honorable  poor.  I've  no  use  for  socialism  or 
any  of  that  flapdoodle.  I  realize  that  the  only 
way  to  right  the  world  is  to  right  the  individual 
first." 

"He  will  break  you." 

"My  soul  is  like  cork,  Doctor.  There's  noth- 
ing brittle  about  cork.  You  know  a  little  about 
me.  Have  you  ever  known1  me  to  step  back  ? ' ' 

"No.  But  what  can  you  do  against  his  tre- 
mendous power,  which  reaches  from  here  to 
Washington?" 

"I  can  speak  the  truth  and  back  it  up  with  in- 
controvertible facts." 

Doctor  Maddox  sighed.  "Let  us  be  off.  The 
coroner  must  be  notified.  I'll  take  you  into  town. 
You  are  going  to  print  this?" 

"lam." 

"Mention  Mansfield?" 

"I  am.     No  editorial  comment;  just  the  bald 


34  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

news  facts.  I'll  refer  to  him  as  the  Lord  of  Poly- 
gon Hill." 

"Son,  they  will  have  your  hide  on  the  fence. " 

"They'll  find  it  pretty  tough  for  nails.  Too 
long  have  the  folks  hereabouts  feared  Mansfield. 
His  power  and  his  money  have  cowed  them.  But 
I'm  not  afraid  of  money  or  prestige." 

"Have  you  ever  come  into  contact  with  them?" 

"Yes."     But  he  said  it  sadly. 

The  two  passed  down  into  the  street,  where 
the  younger  cranked  up  the  runabout.  It  was  a 
faithful  old  trap.  The  engine  began  to  clitter- 
clutter  at  once.  Cathewe  sprang  in  beside  the 
doctor,  and  the  car  lurched  forward  over  the  frozen, 
corrugated  road.  They  were  well  upon  the  asphalt 
of  the  city  when  the  young  man  spoke. 

"I  can't  quite  understand  why  you  defend 
Mansfield." 

"I'm  not  defending  him.  I  am  only  suggesting 
that  there  is  good  in  him.  And  you  are  going  to 
pound  your  way  to  it.  No,  boy;  the  harder  you 
pound  Mansfield,  the  harder  he  gets.  But  go  to 
it.  The  town  is  dull,  and  a  little  excitement  won't 
hurt  it.  So  you've  waited  to  get  an  audience  be- 
fore you  began  your  campaign?  That  was  shrewd. 
The  other  editors  couldn't  wait;  and  where  are 
they?  But  keep  your  eye  open  for  libellous  slips. 
Be  absolutely  sure  of  your  facts." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          35 

"Don't  worry  about  that." 

"Mansfield  has  a  daughter  who  believes  him  to 
be  a  demigod — as  mine  believes  me  to  be." 

"Ah,  but  you  are  one.  Nancy  has  a  right  to 
believe  that.  But  Mansfield's  daughter!  What 
is  she  but  an  inconsequent  butterfly?  The  war 
drove  her  back  to  this  country;  she  let  it.  She 
deserted  her  foster  mother  in  an  hour  like  that! 
She  did  not  even  return  here,  where  she  might  have 
done  some  good.  She  went  to  New  York,  to 
Washington,  to  dance  and  to  play." 

"She  is  young.  In  judging  her  you  may  be  a 
little  hasty.  Nancy,  who  is  visiting  her  in  Wash- 
ington, says  she  is  tender  and  lovely  and  lovable." 

"I  was  wondering  what  had  become  of  Nancy. 
Miss  Mansfield  will  improve.  You  can't  help  it, 
and  be  with  Nancy  Maddox." 

"A  good  girl." 

"She's  splendid!" — with  enthusiasm. 

The  doctor's  eyes  sparkled.  If  only  this  odd, 
clean  boy  and  Nancy  might  fall  in  love  with  each 
other ! 

"They  are  beginning  to  renovate  the  house,"  he 
said. 

"Mansfield's?" 

"Nancy  writes  that  they  expect  to  return  and 
settle  down  permanently  in  the  early  fall.  And 
then  we  shall  see.  Betty  has  a  beautiful  soul,  son; 


36  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

only,  she  isn't  quite  awake  yet.  She  is  not 
dancing  entirely,  down  there  in  Washington. 
Wait  until  you  see  her.  The  marvel  to  me  is  that 
she  is  still  unmarried.  The  young  men  in  Washing- 
ton have  gone  off  their  heads  over  her.  She  has 
all  the  qualities  in  one — like  the  mother  who  bore 
her — beauty,  goodness,  and  money." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  say  so.  Doctor,  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question.  Am  I  anything  like  a  force  in 
this  town?" 

"There  isn't  a  working  man  in  the  county  who 
does  not  trust  you.  There  isn't  a  politician  in  the 
city  hall  who  does  not  fear  you.  That's  why  I 
don't  want  you  to  break  your  head  against  Mans- 
field." 

"I'm  kind  o'  set  in  my  ways.  You're  a  fighting 
man  yourself.  Would  you  quit  in  my  place?  " 

"Probably  not.  I'm  only  trying  to  keep  you 
where  you'll  do  the  most  good.  The  moment  you 
appear  formidable  to  Mansfield,  watch  out." 

"Won't  you  stop  in  for  tea? " 

"Spoil  my  supper.  And  your  mother  would 
make  me  forget  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a 
wife  and  supper  waiting  for  me." 

Cathewe  laughed.     "  She  is  a  wonder,  isn't  she ! " 

"Cathewe,  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  noddle,  but 
both  you  and  your  mother  seem  out  of  place  in  that 
modest  little  home  with  the  picket  fence." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          37 

"What  gives  you  that  idea?"  asked  Cathewe, 
with  a  searching  glance. 

"I  enter  all  houses,  and  my  mind  is  formed.  I 
should  say  that  you  paid  about  six  thousand  for 
the  little  house." 

"About  that." 

"And  the  contents  are  as  rare  and  beautiful  as 
anything  on  Polygon  Hill.  Not  a  chair  without  a 
history.  But  that  isn't  it.  You  two  move  about 
as  though — what  shall  I  say? — as  though  you  had 
always  been  accustomed  to  such  surroundings. 
And  neither  of  you  goes  out  socially.  Off  the  con- 
cert stage  I  never  heard  the  equal  of  your  mother 
at  the  piano.  Understand  me,  son.  I'm  not 
poking  around.  I'm  only  telling  you  that  you 
mystify  us  simple  folks  in  Bannister.  Now  many 
shares  do  you  own  of  the  Herald  ?  " 

"Forty-nine  per  cent." 

"Why  not  fifty-one — the  control?  " 

"We  can't  locate  fifty  shares.  They  have  com- 
pletely vanished  in  some  manner.  Transfer  rec- 
ords gone,  too.  So  long  as  they  don't  turn  up, 
I'm  in  control." 

"The  paper  is  paying  dividends,  I  hear." 

"Small,  but  satisfactory." 

"A  good  joke  on  the  Times  and  the  Telegram. 
They  laughed  at  you  for  taking  hold  of  that  mil- 
dewed, moribund  sheet.  You're  clever." 


38  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Business.  I  inherited  that  talent."  This  was 
spoken  sharply,  as  if  there  was  something  dis- 
tasteful hi  the  confession.  "And  I'm  something 
of  a  sport,  too.  The  greatest  gamble  in  the  world 
is  the  newspaper  game." 

"  How'd  you  happen  to  hit  Bannister?  " 

"When  you  play  poker,  you  never  know 
what's  in  the  draw.  A  newspaper  friend  told 
me  that  the  Herald  was  on  the  market  for 
the  "price  of  the  presses.  And  here  I  am — to 
stay." 

"Ah!    That  depends." 

Cathewe  laughed.  "If  I  didn't  know  you,  I'd 
say  you,  too,  were  afraid  of  the  man." 

"No.  Merely  I  know  him.  I've  taken  a  fancy 
to  you  and  don't  want  to  see  you  ruined.  But 
you  came  here  with  a  double  purpose?" 

"Yes.  As  an  honest  man  and  a  Tomfool.  But 
more  of  that  some  other  day.  Doctor,  what 
would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was  a  man  with  three 
names?" 

"What?— three  names?  " 

"  Yes.     My  own  and  two  others." 

"What's  the  joke,  son?" 

For  a  block  Cathewe  remained  silent.  "After 
all,  a  doctor  is  like  a  priest — the  repository  of 
secrets.  One  more  won't  hurt  you.  I  am  going 
to  talk  to  you  as  the  family  physician." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          39 

"You  mean  that  you  do  not  want  me  to  repeat 
what  you  are  about  to  tell  me?  " 

"Yes." 

"  It  is  nothing  I  ought  not  to  know?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  fugitive  from  justice." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  son ! " 

"But  I'm  a  kind  of  Ishmael.  I  am  pursued  by 
the  Furies.  I  am  in  the  same  category  as  a  ship 
beset  by  a  typhoon — a  victim.  Three  names.  I 
have  an  assumed  one.  By  that  name  I  make  a 
modest  living,  honourably.  Brandon  Cathewe  are 
my  given  names,  the  tail  of  the  kite,  which  is 
Hallo  well.  Have  you  ever  by  chance  heard  of 
DigbyHallowell?" 

The  doctor  repeated  the  name  ruminatingly. 
"Seems  I've  heard  the  name  somewhere,  but  it 
escapes  me  at  this  moment." 

"You  will  recall  it  with  a  little  digging,"  said 
the  young  man  with  gentle  irony.  "And  when  you 
do,  remember  I'm  Digby  Hallowell's  son  and  my 
mother  is  his  widow.  Here  we  are.  Thanks  for 
the  lift.  When  you  pick  the  Herald  off  your  door 
step  to-morrow  morning,  you'll  see  some  interesting 
facts  relative  to  Dunleigh  Mansfield  and  his  way 
of  doing  business.  The  Lord  of  Polygon  Hill. 
That  will  make  a  good  catch-phrase." 

Cathewe  jumped  down  from  the  car  and  with 
astonishing  ease  vaulted  the  gate.  He  turned, 


40  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

waved  his  hand,  and  ran  up  the  brick  path  to  the 
door. 

The  doctor  turned  the  car  to  his  own  driveway 
which  was  diagonally  across  the  street.  Digby 
Hallo  well.  He  tried  to  wake  up  certain  memory 
cells,  but  without  success.  Three  names.  All 
along  the  boy  had  mystified  him.  A  fine  linguist, 
and  for  his  age,  a  remarkable  scholar.  That  would 
be  a  European  education.  He  had  made  the 
Herald  the  most  popular  newspaper  in  town,  but 
he  himself  was  almost  unknown,  having  stayed 
resolutely  in  the  background.  And  all  the  time 
waiting  for  the  psychological  moment  to  arrive 
when  he  might  engage  his  lance  against  Mans- 
field's! The  boy  would  be  ground  to  powder.  It 
would  not  matter  that  right  was  on  his  side;  might 
was  on  the  side  of  Mansfield.  The  boy  would 
lose  eventually  all  he  had  in  the  world.  An  old 
score  to  settle  against  Mansfield?  He  wondered 
if  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  It  would  be 
David  with  his  sling  against  a  dozen  Goliaths 
armed  with  machine-guns.  Not  the  least  chance 
in  the  world.  But  he  would  go  on,  this  boy,  be- 
cause he  was  the  kind  who  had  to  go  on.  The 
prospect  of  defeat  would  not  daunt  him.  It  was  a 
pity. 

Digby  Hallo  well.  Where  had  he  heard  that 
name?  Certainly  he  had  heard  it.  Digby  Hal- 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          41 

lowell.  It  was  not  until  after  eight,  when  office 
hours  were  over,  and  he  was  seated  by  the  reading 
lamp  in  the  library,  that  the  memory  cell  opened 
unexpectedly.  Thunder-struck,  he  lowered  his 
pipe.  The  son  of  that  man !  The  pity  and  tragedy 
of  it!  Now  he  understood  many  baffling  things. 
He  understood  why  that  beautiful  white-haired 
woman  seldom  smiled  save  when  her  boy  was  the 
object  of  her  gaze.  Digby  Hallo  well's  son!  Ish- 
mael  indeed ! 

People  in  Bannister  talked  a  good  deal  about 
Dunleigh  Mansfield,  discussed  him  and  his  method 
frankly  enough;  but  the  newspapers  fought  shy  of 
any  spectacular  tale.  Mansfield  had  a  habit  of 
presenting  editors  with  tickets  of  transportation 
when  he  found  he  did  not  like  them.  So,  on  the 
morrow,  when  subscribers  picked  up  the  Herald 
off  their  front  steps,  they  sensed  a  shock,  at  once 
pleasurable  and  sorrowful.  By  noon  the  whole 
city  was  aware  of  the  fact  that  Mansfield  had  been 
boldly  and  skilfully  assailed  in  his  castle-keep. 

Between  the  counsel  for  the  Mansfield  interests 
in  Bannister  and  Mansfield  himself  there  were  ex- 
changed a  series  of  brief  telegrams.  An  excerpt  of 
the  story  had  been  telegraphed  to  Washington. 

From  Washington:  "Is  it  blackmail?  Give 
the  editor  a  scare." 


42  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

From  Bannister:  "No  blackmail.  He  won't 
scare.  Have  seen  his  proofs.  We  can't  do  any- 
thing through  courts." 

From  Washington:  "Buy  the  sheet.'* 
From  Bannister:    "Editor   says   it  is  not  for 
sale." 

From  Washington :  "  What  is  editor's  name?  " 
When  Mansfield  received  the  answer  to  this 
query,  he  was  in  his  study.  He  was  in  evening 
dress,  waiting  for  his  daughter  and  her  guest,  Miss 
Nancy  Maddox,  to  come  down.  They  were  going 
out  to  dinner  and  later  to  a  dance.  Impatiently 
Mansfield  ripped  open  the  yellow  envelope  and 
drew  out — Medusa's  head!  Anyhow,  he  stared 
at  the  sheet,  motionless  and  stonily,  in  a  kind  of 
petrified  astonishment.  He  had  all  but  forgotten 
the  man  and  the  incident. 
"  Brandon  Cathewe!" 


CHAPTER 

THAT  fellow,  that  impertinent  beggar  who 
had  taken  a  joke  in  earnest!  Gone  to 
Bannister  and  bought  a  newspaper!  But 
why  was  he  turning  his  cannon  upon  Dunleigh 
Mansfield?  If  he  wanted  Betty,  why  attack  the 
father  in  this  manner?  The  infernal  blackguard! 
Mansfield  picked  up  a  cigarette.  It  would  spoil  his 
dinner,  but  the  sudden  craving  for  tobacco  would 
not  be  denied.  Of  course  he  had  purchased  the  in- 
vention outright,  at  an  absurd  figure.  That  was 
merely  good  business.  If  the  inventor  hadn't  the 
brains  and  foresight  to  guard  himself,  that  was  none 
of  Dunleigh  Mansfield's  affair.  After  a  certain 
number  of  years,  if  the  production  reached  a  cer- 
tain height,  the  inventor  was  to  receive  royalty.  If 
a  "  certain  height"  had  signified  a  computation  be- 
yond the  possibilities  of  production,  why  hadn't  the 
inventor  looked  into  the  facts  and  registered  a  pro- 
test? A  perfectly  legal  business  deal;  the  moral  side 
of  it  was  negligible.  It  just  happened  to  be  one  of 
those  newspaper  sensations  for  which  the  American 
public  clamoured.  Spite,  probably.  The  young 
fool  had  suddenly  realized  that  Betty  was  as  far 

43 


44  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

out  of  his  reach  as  the  stars,  and  had  now  em- 
barked upon  a  campaign  of  spite. 

But  for  all  that,  the  madman  had  gone  to  Ban- 
nister; and  madmen  who  accomplished  things  were 
dangerous.  Of  all  the  insane  projects!  But  there 
occurred  to  Mansfield  that  there  was  a  sinister 
phase  to  the  affair.  The  young  anarchist  must 
be  suppressed  before  he  made  any  headway.  He 
must  find  out  how  long  the  fool  had  been  in  Ban- 
nister and  what  success  he  was  making  of  the  sheet. 
Actually  gone  to  Bannister  to  become  a  force ! 

Very  good.  Mansfield  knew  all  about  editors 
and  newspapers.  He  had  eliminated  more  than 
one  editor  from  the  affairs  of  Bannister.  Another 
was  now  due  to  follow  his  predecessors.  An  anar- 
chist; and  sooner  or  later  he  would  be  meddling 
with  the  men  in  the  shops — if  let  be. 

Betty,  however,  must  know  nothing;  the  scur- 
rilous sheet  must  not  fall  into  her  hands.  It  was 
perfectly  legitimate  business;  but  the  young  woman 
had  odd  ideas  hi  her  head.  She  was  sometimes 
painfully  clear  and  direct. 

Soon  she  would  be  returning  to  Bannister.  He 
did  not  want  her  to  go  back  there  at  all,  but  there 
was  apparently  no  visible  method  by  which  he  would 
dissuade  her.  But  why  didn't  he  want  her  to  go 
back?  That  puzzled  him.  He  had  tried  to  an- 
alyze this  objection,  but  it  eluded  him  perpetually. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          45 

Was  it  because  the  child  had  ceased  to  be  a 
stranger?  Was  it  because  her  point  of  view  was 
subtly  undermining  his?  Of  what  was  he  afraid? 
That  in  returning  to  Bannister  she  might  eventu- 
ally learn  that  her  father  was  not  quite  the  demigod 
she  pictured  him? 

Well,  he  would  have  that  Cathewe  chap  out  of 
the  way  before  she  did  return.  His  only  concern 
was  that  she  might  stumble  upon  something  in  type. 
Very  few  in  Bannister  would  dare  whisper  even  that 
Dunleigh  Mansfield  was  not  always  scrupulous. 

Concern.  He  began  to  turn  the  word  over  and 
over  in  his  mind.  Was  it  concern?  Was  it  not 
something  akin  to  fear?  The  child  actually  loved 
him,  though  he  had  never  melted  beyond  the  per- 
functory kiss  and  embrace;  and  his  fear  or  concern, 
or  whatever  it  was,  was  for  her  rather  than  for  him- 
self. He  did  not  want  her  to  learn  that  business 
and  politics  were  ruthless  adventures. 

He  was  really  fond  of  her.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  his  mind  regarding  this  fact.  He  had  also  grown 
accustomed  to  her.  She  was  always  amiable  and 
witty;  and  he  was  just  beginning  to  find  amazing 
pleasure  in  the  sound  of  her  singing  voice.  Hith- 
erto music  had  left  him  untouched  emotionally; 
now  he  at  least  found  it  soothing. 

There  was  no  love  in  his  heart  for  her;  the  in- 
stinct was  merely  that  of  possession.  That  fell  in 


46  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

accord  with  his  ruling  passion — to  possess  that 
which  the  other  man  had  not,  or  if  he  did  possess  it 
to  dispossess  him.  His  daughter  was  a  lovely  and 
companionable  ornament.  Years  ago  he  had 
written  in  granite  that  love  and  business  should  not 
be  mixed,  that  it  was  impossible  to  mix  them,  that 
it  must  be  one  or  the  other.  He  knew  that  he  did 
not  love  her.  He  never  worried  about  her  when 
she  went  out  alone  as  she  often  did.  There  was 
never  any  thrill  when  she  returned.  He  was  al- 
ways glad  to  see  her;  this  much  was  an  established 
fact.  She  had  become  a  part  of  his  daily  routine. 
He  recognized  that  he  did  not  want  to  love  her. 
Such  a  condition  of  mind  would  become  a  disinte- 
grating force  in  relation  to  the  tremendous  plans 
he  was  forming  against  the  future — when  this  silly 
war  was  done  with.  One  could  not  be  ruthless  and 
love  anything. 

Long  ago  Mansfield  had  lost  the  art  of  intro- 
spection. Self -analysis  was  a  waste  of  time.  And 
he  seldom  inclined  toward  retrospection.  The 
past  was  like  a  series  of  shut  doors.  He  rarely  if 
ever  turned  back  to  open  one;  or,  if  one  was  opened 
somebody  else  opened  it:  as  for  instance,  this  im- 
pertinent young  anarchist  who  had  just  pilloried 
Mansfield's  business  methods  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  leave  the  object  of  the  onslaught  without  a 
counter-attack  in  the  courts. 


JIhe  Man  With  Three  Names          47 

After  all,  there  was  something  startling  in  the 
event.  Of  all  the  insane  projects !  The  fellow  had 
actually  taken  him  at  his  word  and  gone  to  Ban- 
nister to  make  good.  There  existed,  then,  a  human 
being  who  could  embark  upon  such  an  enterprise, 
who  could  accept  conditions  which  would  have 
wrinkled  the  brow  of  the  young  Hercules?  Mans- 
field recalled  what  he  could  of  that  remarkable  inter- 
view. Why,  the  fellow  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
jest,  but  had  pinned  the  jester  down  to  a  gentle- 
man's agreement.  A  Don  Quixote  in  a  cotton 
shirt!  Gone  to  Bannister,  bought  that  semi- 
socialistic  sheet,  all  with  the  idea  of  winning 
Betty !  The  fellow  ought  to  be  looked  over  by  the 
commission  in  lunacy. 

Very  well.  Shortly  the  editor  would  sell  his 
newspaper;  if  he  refused  to  sell,  he  would  be  driven 
into  bankruptcy.  One  did  not  have  to  dynamite 
a  newspaper  to  get  rid  of  it;  you  took  away  its  ad- 
vertising. In  one  manner  or  another,  he  should 
be  driven  out  of  Bannister,  where  he  did  not  belong. 
There  was  no  fear  in  Mansfield's  heart.  His  pre- 
rogatives had  been  encroached  upon,  and  the  en- 
croacher  must  be  punished,  as  an  example  and  a 
warning  to  other  editors  that  one  man  ruled  the 
destinies  of  Bannister. 

When  his  daughter  and  her  friend  came  down, 
Mansfield  had  himself  in  hand.  His  handsome 


48  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

face  was  expressive  of  pleasure  and  amiability  and 
gave  no  hint  of  the  cold  plans  of  annihilation  that 
were  forming  in  his  head. 

"I  don't  know  which  of  you  two  affords  me  the 
most  pleasure — the  orchid  or  the  rose,"  he  said. 
"I  expect  to  be  very  much  envied  to-night." 

"  Which  of  us  is  which?  "  asked  Betty. 

"I'm  the  country  rose,"  said  Nancy,  readily. 

"  Then  I  am  to  consider  myself  an  orchid?  " 

"The  white  orchid  of  Borneo,"  said  her  father, 
gallantly. 

"  Daddy,  that  was  very  nice.     Ready?  " 

"Yes.  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  two  after  din- 
ner. I  am  expecting  to  wind  up  a  munitions  con- 
tract. You  are  not  afraid  to  come  home  alone, 
Betty?" 

Betty  laughed.  "I  adore  these  adventures 
where  I  have  to  depend  upon  myself.  Think  of 
the  thrill  of  saying — 'Home,  James!' — on  a  dark 
night!" 

"Honestly,  I  don't  believe  you  are  afraid  of 
anything,  Betty,"  declared  Mansfield,  pleased. 

"Why  should  I  be?" 

"The  dark,"  said  Nancy,  "has  no  terrors  for 
either  of  us.  It  all  depends  upon  what  you  read." 

"And  what  do  you  read?"  asked  Mansfield, 
who  was  really  a  fine  scholar. 

"Good  books,  books  about  human  beings  who 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          49 

are  striving  to  better  themselves.  I  like  that 
*  Prosaic  Lives/  The  author  wrote  from  his  heart." 

Mansfield  picked  up  the  book  from  the  table. 
"A  green  young  man.  It  is  quite  patent  that  he 
wrote  from  his  heart,  not  from  a  brain  that  had 
gathered  the  facts  first-hand  and  sifted  false  ideals 
from  the  true.  A  good  book,  a  worth-while  book, 
must  be  the  result  of  a  nicely  balanced  brain  and 
heart.  If  you  let  the  heart  dictate,  you  generally 
invite  trouble.  It  is  as  if  a  soldier  were  giving 
orders  to  his  general.  A  well- written  book,  but 
green." 

"It  was  very  popular,"  Nancy  defended. 

"And  there  are  some  lines  that  are  beautiful," 
added  Betty.  "They  are  like  little  children.  You 
want  to  cuddle  them." 

"Oh,  he  has  promise.  But  his  fault  is  patent. 
He  strives  for  realism,  and  an  inherent  romanticism 
is  always  cropping  forth.  Some  day  he  will  look 
back  upon  this  book  with  chagrin.  Well,  suppose 
we  start?" 

"But  what  an  odd  name  to  assume!"  Betty 
balanced  the  book  on  her  palm. 

"George  Cottar;  Kipling's  Brushwood  Boy. 
And  there  you  are,"  declared  her  father.  "A 
dreamer,  not  a  doer;  a  dweller  in  a  fairyland  of 
his  own  making,  observing  life  through  roseate 
clouds!" 


50  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

i 

"But  what  would  we  do  in  this  world  if  there 

weren't  any  Brushwood  Boys?"  asked  Nancy. 
"Don't  we  all  make  believe  at  one  time  or  another? 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you've  never  built 
any  dreams?" 

"Oh,  when  I  was  a  youngster,  probably — the 
kind  of  dreams  you  mean.  I  have  my  dreams  all 
right;  but  they  come  to  me  in  the  form  of  blue- 
prints. And  I  have  the  advantage  over  your 
George  Cottar,  for  my  dreams  come  true." 

"Didn't  his?  "  said  Betty,  softly. 

"But  that's  a  story  only.  It  happened  in  a 
book";  and  Mansfield  started  for  the  hall. 

He  sat  in  the  forward  chair  of  the  limousine. 
Occasionally  he  heard  the  girls  laugh.  When- 
ever they  spoke  to  him,  he  replied  in  monosyllables. 
His  thoughts  were  busy  mulling  over  the  Cathewe 
affair.  A  man,  a  grown  man,  to  attempt  a  game 
like  this ! 

Suddenly  he  had  it;  and  the  illumination  chilled 
him  slightly.  Reprisal.  The  whole  affair  on  ship- 
board a  blind,  Betty  a  pretence.  The  son  of  some 
man  he  had  broken  via  the  Wall  Street  method. 
The  affair  now  had  sense  and  significance.  Reprisal. 
Very  good.  What  he  had  meted  out  to  the  father 
he  would  mete  out  to  the  son. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  the  girls  returned  neither  was  in 
the  mood  for  bed.     So  they  went  into 
the  library  and  curled  up  on  the  daven- 
port.    The   soft-coal   fire,   full   of    little  flaming 
tongues  of  gas,  was  the  only  light.     For  awhile 
they  did  not  speak.     They  were  revolving  that 
marvellous   kaleidoscope   called   memory.     They 
were  building  in  the  fire,  as  they  say,  castles  and 
cottages,  gardens  and  young  romance. 

I  wish  I  had  some  new  words;  or  that  I  could 
twist  the  old  ones  about  in  such  a  fashion  as  to 
make  them  look  new.  To  have  described  these 
two  young  women  a  thousand  years  ago,  when  the 
language  blocks  were  freshly  painted!  Both  of 
them  had  beauty.  The  beauty  of  one  was  cloud- 
like  :  a  summer  cloud,  brilliantly  white  against  the 
blue,  changing  subtilely  and  continuously,  mirrored 
on  the  stream — a  serene  beauty.  Her  lovely  white 
arms  were  spread  out  on  each  side  of  her.  Her 
skin,  reflecting  the  firelight,  was  like  a  gold-beater's 
leaf;  and  there  were  magic  threads  of  gold  in  the 
blue  iris  of  her  eye.  Her  hair  was  a  ruddy  brown, 
like  the  leaf  of  the  copper-beech  in  October.  The 

51 


52  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

other  girl  was  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her 
chin  in  the  cup  of  her  palms.  She  was  as  pretty 
as  a  hollyhock:  homesy,  frank,  and  friendly.  Good 
foils,  a  summer  cloud  and  a  hollyhock. 

There  was  no  continuity  to  Nancy  Maddox's 
thoughts.  They  were  like  butterflies,  wheeling 
and  turning  in  a  most  wonderful  garden.  These 
amazing  two  weeks!  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
wasn't  real,  that  in  some  mysterious  fashion  she 
had  been  incorporated  between  the  covers  of  an 
English  society  novel.  Ambassadors  and  diplo- 
mats, officers  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  heroes 
and  politicians!  Men  with  brains  to  sell,  guns, 
secrets.  And  they  danced  with  Nancy  Maddox 
because  she  was  Betty  Mansfield's  friend. 

Betty !  How  they  flocked  about  her,  these  men ! 
She  was  like  a  whirlpool,  drawing  everyone  toward 
her,  and  quite  as  unconscious  of  her  power  as  any 
real  whirlpool.  Nancy  had  learned  a  stupendous 
fact,  that  the  great  in  soul  are  always  simple  and 
genuine.  And  this  lovely  girl  at  her  side  was 
totally  free  of  artifice.  Possibly  this  was  one  of 
her  main  attractions.  To  blase  Washington  it 
was  a  novelty  to  come  into  contact  with  a  mind 
that  was  as  frank  and  kindly  bent  as  it  was  brilliant. 
And  yet,  what  was  it?  Always  Betty  seemed  to 
be  gazing  over  the  heads  of  her  admirers  with  the 
air  of  a  watcher.  That  was  it  precisely:  watching 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          53 

and  waiting  for  something.  The  baffling  eager- 
ness with  which  she  greeted  strange  young  men, 
and  then  shortly  the  lack  of  interest  in  them!  A 
riddle  of  some  sort. 

Boom-boom!  said  the  ormulu  clock  on  the  man- 
tel. 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  the  hollyhock; 
"two  o'clock  in  the  morning!" 

"Sleepy,  Nancy?  Why,  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  here  is  only  the  shank  of  the  evening." 

"I  guess  I'm  truly  a  country  mouse.  Anything 
after  midnight  scares  me.  What  a  gorgeous  time 
you  have  given  me!  I  wonder  if  you  haven't 
spoiled  me  for  Bannister?  Dear  old  father  will 
notice  my  airs  and  make  fun  of  me." 

"Nothing  could  spoil  you,  Nancy.  Isn't  it  odd, 
though?  I  haven't  seen  you  but  three  times  in  all 
these  years  and  you  are  just  the  same  as  when  we 
played  in  pinafores.  Nancy,  I  just  love  you!" 
And  Betty  threw  her  arms  around  her  friend. 
"And  you  love  me?" 

"  With  all  my  heart ! "  Nancy  returned  the  em- 
brace vigorously.  "Aren't  you  tired?" 

"Of  all  this?  Of  travel,  of  living  in  villas  and 
hotels?  Oh,  I  tired  of  that  long  ago,  before  the  war 
forced  me  home.  And  I  did  so  want  to  stay  in 
France,  which  I  love  so.  Unhappy  France — to  do 
something  for  her !  B  ut  Daddy  ordered  me  home. ' ' 


54  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"Betty,  you  baffle  me.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
know  you;  then  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"How— why?" 

"For  what  are  you  watching  and  waiting?" 

"Watching  and  waiting?" — startled.  "Is  it 
noticeable?" 

"To  me,  Betty.  You  are  so  beautiful  that  I 
find  myself  watching  you  constantly.  And  I 
can't  get  away  from  the  idea  that  you  are  watch- 
ing and  waiting  for  something  or  someone.  The 
eager  way  in  which  you  greet  new  men !  I  thought 
at  first  it  was  one  of  those  little  tricks  women  use  to 
trap  men's  interest.  But  not  you.  I  have  noticed 
that  after  you've  talked  a  little  while  with  a  new 
man  you  leave  him  utterly  bewildered  by  your 
sudden  lack  of  interest." 

"And  so  you  have  noticed!  I  wonder  if  others 
have?  Nancy,  have  you  ever  been  in  love?" 
— rather  intensely. 

"I  don't  know,  Betty.  There  is  a  young  man 
in  Bannister  I'm  very  fond  of.  I'm  afraid  I  am 
fonder  than  it  is  wise  to  be,  since  no  act  or  word  of 
his  has  ever  carried  him  over  the  boundary  line  of 
friendship.  He's  the  queerest  boy!  Merry  and 
whimsical  and  shrewd:  but  sometimes  I  sense 
precipices  in  his  soul — depths  that  I  cannot  see  into. 
Father  says  he  is  the  finest  young  man  he  ever  met. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          55 

But  there!  I'm  not  in  love  that  I  know  of.  It 
may  happen,  but  I'm  not  going  to  let  go  until  he 
gives  me  the  right  to." 

"Poor  little  country  mouse!  Do  you  believe 
love  is  something  you  can  put  snaffle  and  curb  on? 
You  are  right,  Nancy.  I  am  watching.  I  don't 
suppose  there's  another  woman  in  all  this  world  so 
strangely  and  inexorably  trapped  as  I  am." 

" Trapped?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"Exactly  what  I  say — trapped.  Enmeshed  in 
delicate  cobweb,  and  yet  I  cannot  break  through." 
Betty  stood  up.  She  swept  a  hand  across  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  I  must  tell  someone,  or  go  mad !  I  dare  not 
tell  Daddy.  Besides,  he  would  not  understand. 
He  doesn't  believe  in  Brushwood  Boys."  Betty 
suddenly  dropped  to  her  knees  and  seized  the 
bewildered  Nancy's  hands.  "Romance!  Nancy, 
do  I  look  like  the  kind — am  I  the  kind — for  any 
man  to  play  with?  I  mean,  is  it  right  that  any 
m'an  should  hurt  and  mock  me  when  I  have  wit- 
tingly harmed  no  one?  It  isn't  fair,  it  isn't  fair! 
Love! — as  if  one  could  say  howdy-do  to  it  and 
then  good-bye!" 

"Betty,  whatever  has  happened?  I  just  knew 
that  something  was  wrong.  But  there  must  be 
some  mistake.  No  man  would  hurt  and  mock  you 
intentionally." 

Betty  turned  and  sat  on  her  heels,  staring  into 


56  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

the  crumbling  embers.  She  drew  one  of  Nancy's 
hands  down  across  her  shoulder  and  held  it  tightly. 

"Letters! — from  the  sky,  the  clouds,  the  stars, 
burning  with  fire.  Oh,  he  must  have  loved  me! 
He  couldn't  have  written  like  that  else.  The 
first  came  in  the  fall  of  nineteen  twelve,  just  after 
I  had  returned  to  Paris.  It  was  beautifully 
written,  full  of  poetry  and  music  .  .  .  and  love. 
I  read  it  and  threw  it  into  the  empty  grate.  But  I 
went  back  and  recovered  it.  There  was  a  phrase 
that  kept  singing  through  my  head,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  if  I  had  interpreted  it  correctly.  Well,  I 
put  the  letter  away.  It  wasn't  as  if  I  had  never 
met  young  men.  After  I  was  eighteen  the  chateau 
doors  were  thrown  open.  It  was  my  father's  wish 
that  I  should  be  a  little  worldly — defensively.  I 
shall  inherit  a  vast  fortune  some  day,  aside  from 
that  which  my  mother  left  me;  and  it  was  a  wise 
provision  that  I  should  know  how  to  guard  myself. 
So  I  wasn't  an  innocent,  newly  emerged  from  the 
nursery." 

Nancy  laid  her  free  hand  on  the  beautiful  hair 
and  stroked  it. 

"Of  course  I  wondered  who  and  what  he  was. 
I  had  nearly  forgotten  the  letter — a  month  later — 
when  the  second  one  came,  quite  as  wonderful  as 
the  first,  which  I  resurrected  for  comparison. 
They  were  absolutely  unlike  except  in  theme. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          57 

That  was  love.  Father,  as  you  know,  was  never 
with  me  to  any  extent.  Somehow  I  could  not  go 
to  the  Countess — my  foster  mother — and  ask 
her  if  it  were  proper  for  me  to  keep  the  letters.  I 
did  not  want  to  keep  them,  and  I  just  couldn't 
destroy  them.  You  see,  no  answer  was  expected, 
for  there  was  neither  name  nor  address.  A  month 
later  the  third  letter  came.  And  then  I  began  to 
wait  for  them,  eager  and  thrilled.  For  nearly 
three  years  they  came,  Paris,  Rome,  London, 
Cairo,  Florence,  Washington,  direct,  there  was 
never  any  forwarding  marks  upon  the  envelopes. 
Someone  who  knew  where  I  was,  where  I  was  going. 
That  alone  fascinated  me." 

"From  where  were  they  mailed?  " 

"Always  from  New  York.  I  have  done  silly 
things.  I  have  even  carried  an  autograph  album 
about.  Imagine  it! — one  of  those  old  things  our 
grandmothers  used.  All  the  young  men  who 
have  danced  or  dined  or  had  tea  at  this  house  or  in 
New  York  have  written  their  names  in  this  album. 
But  I  never  found  the  handwriting  I  was  in  search 
of." 

"But  it  would  be  easy  to  disguise  that." 

"I  made  them  write  a  paragraph  with  three  or 
four  sentences — quotations.  It  wasn't  the  writing ; 
it  was  the  style  of  punctuation  by  which  they 
ended  a  sentence." 


58  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"I  was  hunting  for  a  curious  period — a  little  x 
instead  of  a  dot,  such  as  you  and  I  make.  A  man 
might  change  the  style  of  his  stroke,  but  habit 
would  lure  him  into  making  that  odd  little  period — 
so  I  believed." 

"And  you  never  found  it?  " 

• 

"No.  There  was  always  a  postscript  to  these 
letters.  Some  day  I  shall  come  to  you.  Five 
months  ago  the  letters  ceased  to  come.  What  has 
happened?  Is  he  dead?  If  alive,  why  doesn't  he 
come  to  me? — when  he  knows  where  I  am?  A 
man  so  clever  and  resourceful,  who  always  knows 
where  I  am  going  to  be  and  when,  ought  not  to 
have  any  difficulty  in  finding  me.  Nancy,  I'm 
much  afraid." 

"Of  what?" 

"That  he  has  created  in  my  heart  something 
that  will  always  be  there." 

"Love?"  whispered  Nancy. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  it  is  beginning  to 
hurt  dreadfully.  Such  beautiful  letters:  poetry, 
music,  nature.  How  many  times  have  I  fashioned 
him  in  the  grate  there!  Odd,  that  we  cannot  im- 
agine a  face  and  retain  it  in  the  memory.  Imagine 
the  lure  of  it!  When  I  am  in  Florence,  he  tells  me 
where  to  go:  strange  places  the  average  tourist 
never  hears  about.  It  is  the  same  when  I  am  in 


Oh,  Nancy     .      .     .     if  I  could  only  stamp  out 
the  thought  of  him 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          59 

Paris.  It  is  almost  as  if  he  were  walking  beside 
me." 

"He  may  be  poor,  Betty." 

"Poor?  A  man  who  has  travelled  as  he  has? — 
who  knows  Florence  better  than  the  Florentine? 
No,  Nancy.  It  costs  money.  But  why  did  he 
write  me  in  the  first  place,  if  he  did  not  intend  pre- 
senting himself  some  day?  Nancy,  I  have  carried 
these  letters  in  passionate  anger  to  this  fire,  deter- 
mined to  throw  them  into  the  flames.  And  what 
do  I  do?  I  sit  down,  read  them,  cry  over  them, 
and  carry  them  back  to  the  Florentine  box  I  keep 
them  in.  At  first,  when  I  got  a  letter,  it  made  me 
curiously  happy.  I'd  sit  down  at  the  piano  and 
sing  happy  songs.  Now  I  can't  sing  anything  but 
sad  ones.  What  is  happening  to  me?  Whatever 
can  it  mean  ?  I  am  afraid . ' ' 

"He  may  be  ill." 

"He  would  have  found  some  way  of  notifying 
me." 

"  He  may  have  gone  to  war." 

"He  would  have  let  me  know." 

"He  might  be  too  old  and  afraid  to  come." 

"Oh,  Nancy,  he  is  young — like  I  am!  I  know 
it.  But  if  I  could  only  stamp  out  the  thought  of 
him,  free  myself.  I  am  watching  and  waiting  and 
searching.  I  am  always  straining  my  ears  for  some 
sign.  He  doesn't  come.  And  now  he  writes  no 


60  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

more.  Where  and  under  what  circumstances  did 
he  first  see  me?  Have  I  really  met  him?  Do  I 
know  him?  What  impelled  him  to  write  like  that 
to  me?  No  man  would  make  sport  of  me.  My 
brain  is  in  a  turmoil.  I  would  have  disobeyed 
father  and  remained  in  France  but  for  the  hope 
that  if  I  came  home  I  might  meet  this  strange  and 
unusual  man.  Nancy,  I  am  hurt." 

"Burn  the  letters,"  said  Nancy,  indignantly. 
"It  is  going  back  to  them  that  holds  you.  Burn 
them.  Cut  the  Gorgon  knot." 

"I've  tried  and  I  can't!" 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  THE  sunny  side  of  a  huge  boulder,  on 
the  top  of  a  rusty  green  hill,  sat  a  man  with 
a  small  book  on  his  knees.     He  wore  a 
gray  flannel  shirt,  tieless ;  a  pair  of  brown  corduroy 
trousers,  much  battered  for  wear;  and  a  pair  of 
ugly  russet  walking  boots.     For  the  present  he 
was  hatless,  and  his  hair  was  tousled  from  constant 
plowing  of  his  fingers. 

From  time  to  time  his  gaze  would  rove  over  the 
top  of  the  book  to  the  dancing  waters  of  the  great 
fresh- water  sea,  half  a  mile  or  more  to  the  north. 
Behind  him  there  was  a  fine  country  road.  Oc- 
casionally an  automobile  flew  past  with  a  whining 
zoum;  but  the  brisk  northwest  wind  carried  the 
dust  to  the  south  side  of  the  highway.  Eastward, 
above  the  brown  and  green  and  scarlet  boscage, 
several  church  spires  were  visible  in  the  late  Sep- 
tember haze.  There  lay  the  city  of  Bannister. 
Nature,  hating  the  ugly,  hid  it  as  well  as  she  could. 
Farther  east,  a  drab  smudge,  which  seemed  to  shut 
off  the  world  beyond. 

Whenever  the  man's  gaze  went  back  to  his  book, 
his  expression  was  one  of  contentment.  When- 

61 


62  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

ever  this  gaze  shifted  toward  the  spires,  an  ironical 
smile  twisted  up  the  corners  of  his  lips.  It  was 
when  he  looked  at  the  water  and  the  sky  that  an 
observer  might  have  caught  the  vague  glimpse  of 
a  poet's  soul.  To  be  a  poet  one  does  not  have  to 
write  verse;  it  is  necessary  only  to  love  the  beau- 
tiful. 

"Clouds!"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy. 
The  book  slipped  from  his  knees. 

Fairy  castles  and  witches'  caverns  and  Ali 
Baba's  caves:  rolling  billows  of  white  with  ice-blue 
shadows  and  patches  of  intense  blue;  clouds,  with 
the  zenith  and  the  dancing  sapphire  waters  for  a 
frame. 

He  frowned,  for  the  smudge  in  the  east  again 
came  into  his  range  of  vision.  They  were  after 
him  down  there.  Nearly  all  the  local  advertising 
had  fallen  away,  and  the  stockholders  were  ex- 
hibiting signs  of  restiveness;  and  that  signified 
that  Mansfield  or  his  agents  had  approached  them. 
Still,  he  had  their  solemn  promises  that  neither 
Mansfield  nor  his  accredited  agents  would  lay  a 
finger  on  the  stock,  that  under  no  provocation 
would  they  sell  to  the  Lord  of  Polygon  Hill. 
Cathewe  knew  that  he  could  have  settled  the 
matter  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen.  What  made  him 
dodder  and  risk  betrayal?  There  was  no  logical 
reason  at  all  why  he  shouldn't  buy  out  the  dis- 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          63 

gruntled  stockholders  and  make  his  grip  on  the 
Herald  absolute  and  permanent.  There  was  some- 
thing quicksilvery  about  this  hesitance  to  act  as 
he  knew  he  ought  to  act,  for  he  could  not  grasp  it. 

Had  his  diatribes  and  the  success  of  the  Herald 
brought  Mansfield  home,  he  wondered.  Power. 
What  an  instrument  to  play  on,  this  shifting, 
volatile  thing  called  the  public!  People  in  Ban- 
nister who  had  to  work  had  finally  accepted  the 
Herald  as  their  pilot,  whether  the  subject  was  war, 
politics,  or  religion.  Power,  a  strong  arm  and  a 
shield  for  the  weak;  to  have  sought  the  bird  of 
paradise,  and  to  have  found  the  eagle. 

His  thought  went  to  his  mother.  What  a 
thoroughbred  she  was,  to  stick  to  him  on  his 
crazy  adventure,  to  follow  his  fortunes,  when  she 
might  have  remained  in  the  peace  and  seclusion  of 
the  villa  up  Fiesole  way,  with  that  riot  of  roses  in 
the  spring-time  and  the  sun  on  the  red  roofs  of 
Florence! 

Cathewe,  her  maiden  name;  and  to  be  forced  to 
prefix  it  with  Mrs.  in  order  to  share  his  fortunes! 
And  always  just  a  little  worried  for  fear  that  some- 
one from  the  old  world  she  had  known  might  cross 
her  path  and  recognize  her.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  them  both  had  she  remained  in  Italy, 
to  have  let  him  work  out  his  amazing  destiny 
alone.  But  what  would  he  have  done  without  her? 


64          The  Man  With  Three  Names 

When  he  was  tired,  discouraged,  and  heart-achy,  to 
go  home  to  her  and  sit  in  the  twilight  while  she 
soothed  him  with  that  marvellous  art  of  hers — his 
mother  and  his  comrade.  And  the  joy  of  sitting 
beside  her  on  the  piano  bench,  an  arm  around  her, 
while  she  improvised  and  talked  at  the  same  time. 
God  bless  her!  And  it  was  inevitable  that  some 
day  he  would  have  to  leave  her.  For  he  recog- 
nized the  trend  of  events.  America  could  not  stay 
out  of  this  war  much  longer. 

The  thousand  doors  of  fate,  as  the  ancient  China- 
man had  said.  A  thousand  open  doors,  and  he 
had  entered  this  one,  to  find  himself.  That  was 
the  amazing  part  of  it.  A  chance  shot  in  the  dark 
— and  here  was  the  chosen  highway;  obstacled, 
yes,  but  now  clearly  defined.  No  more  blind 
alleys  leading  nowhere,  no  more  doddering  and 
doubting.  And  all  because  a  woman's  face  had 
filled  him  with  flame.  That  beautiful  face,  then, 
had  been  merely  a  sign-post  to  direct  him  on  his 
way.  He  had  gone  aboard  that  ship,  his  head 
full  of  wondrous  plans  for  the  future — and  here  he 
was,  in  Bannister. 

Human  beings  could  get  over  most  things — even 
love — and  he  knew  that  his  sense  of  chagrin  was 
slowly  but  surely  effecting  a  cure.  The  face  of  an 
angel  and  the  soul  of  a  butterfly.  There  was  no 
niche  for  a  butterfly  in  his  plan  of  life,  a  gilded, 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          65 

inconsequent  butterfly.  The  world  was  on  fire — 
and  she  could  dance! 

What  possessed  a  man,  he  wondered,  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  picture?  For  that  was  what  he  had 
done.  A  picture,  inexpressibly  lovely,  but  still  a 
picture.  Twice,  during  the  past  two  weeks,  he 
had  seen  her  in  her  limousine,  her  face  in  the  cool 
shade  of  an  old-fashioned  Leghorn  hat.  There 
was  a  quaintness  in  her  air  that  reminded  him  of 
Botticelli.  And  she  was  shallow. 

Three  or  four  times  he  had  been  on  the  point  of 
quizzing  Nancy;  but  Nancy  was  so  shrewd  that 
he  was  afraid  lest  she  suspect  the  character  of  his 
interest. 

Nancy.  Why  couldn't  he  fall  in  love  with 
Nancy,  pretty  and  wholesome  and  homesy,  with 
her  broad,  sensible  outlook,  her  kindness  and  ten- 
derness, her  deep  sympathy  for  his  cause?  What 
fun  it  was,  dropping  in  there  for  tea  and  chattering 
about  books.  The  only  home,  save  his  own,  he 
ever  entered.  Why  had  the  butterfly  crossed  his 
path  before  he  had  seen  the  bee?  That  was  one 
of  life's  ironies. 

But  was  he  getting  over  it?  Was  the  cure  really 
in  process?  If  so,  why  had  he  gone  up  to  Poly- 
gon Hill  the  other  night,  in  the  rain,  to  stand  on  the 
sidewalk  with  the  hoi-polloi,  while  the  2Kte  of 
Bannister  emerged  from  their  limousines  and 


66  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

taxis  to  pass  under  a  canvas  canopy  fully  three 
hundred  feet  long?  What  freakish  curiosity  had 
impelled  him  to  wait  there  like  a  yokel,  for  nothing? 
There  had  been  no  earthly  hope  of  seeing  the 
butterfly  in  whose  honour  this  affair  had  been  ar- 
ranged. Vaguely  he  had  sensed  the  urge  of  one  of 
those  wild,  spectacular  plunges  of  his:  to  walk  in, 
uninvited  and  as  welcome  as  the  plague,  and  de- 
mand of  Mansfield  that  he  carry  out  his  end  of  the 
absurd  agreement,  since  Brandon  Cathewe  had 
become  a  force  in  the  city  of  Bannister.  Had  he  not 
already  fashioned  a  flaming  sword? — and  wasn't 
he  striking  sound  and  rugged  blows  against  the 
predatory  in  the  interests  of  the  weak?  And  as 
evidence,  wasn't  Dunleigh  Mansfield  throwing  the 
full  weight  of  his  power  against  the  Herald?  To 
have  walked  into  that  magnificent  hallway,  in  his 
rain-sodden  clothes,  and  demanded  an  introduction 
to  Betty  Mansfield! 

The  vast  humour  of  such  an  exploit — his  perfect 
sense  of  the  denouement — had  doubtless  saved 
him  from  committing  it.  He  had  burst  forth  into 
a  gale  of  sardonic  laughter,  touch  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  hoi-polloi  who  had  peered  at  him  sus- 
piciously from  under  teetering  umbrellas. 

There  came  an  interruption — the  whine  of  an 
automobile.  A  plague  on  them:  a  man  had  to 
climb  the  Matterhorn  these  days  to  find  solitude. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          67 

"Sandy!"  cried  a  woman's  voice  from  the  far 
side  of  the  boulder.  "Sandy,  come  here!  .  .  . 
Sandy!" 

The  automobile  whizzed  by.  Cathewe  recovered 
his  book  and  stood  up  resentfully.  But  this  resent- 
ment died  swiftly. 

On  the  slope  just  beyond  the  ditch — where  he 
had  been  flung — lay  an  Airedale,  motionless. 
Kneeling  beside  him  was  Betty  Mansfield,  her 
hands  clenched  against  her  bosom,  her  eyes  full  of 
unshed  tears. 

"My  dog!.     .     .     .  My  friend  and  comrade!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

CATHEWE  dropped  his  book,  ran  across, 
looked  at  the  dog  for  a  moment  or  two, 
then  picked  him  up  tenderly  and  carried 
him  back  to  the  sunny  side  of  the  boulder,  where 
there  was  a  patch  of  warm  clover.  The  girl  fol- 
lowed, dumbly.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  until 
Cathewe  put  his  hand  over  the  dog's  heart. 

"Is — is  he  dead?  "  she  whispered. 

"No."  His  hands  roved  hither  and  yon  over 
the  dog's  body.  "We'll  wait  a  minute.  I  can't 
find  any  breaks.  Probably  stunned." 

"My  poor  Sandy!" 

A  moment  later  Cathewe  received  a  slight  but 
pleasurable  shock.  He  had  reached  for  the  dog's 
head  the  same  instant  as  she,  and  their  hands 
touched.  A  great  bitterness  swept  over  him  ;*  for 
the  aftermath  of  that  pleasurable  shock  was  the 
knowledge  that  he  still  cared. 

A  shudder  ran  over  the  Airedale;  and  presently 
the  stump  of  his  tail  began  to  beat  the  turf, 
feebly. 

"  Sandy?  " — joyously. 

"He's  all  right,"   said    Cathewe,    confidently. 

68 


Tlie  Man  With  Three  Names          69 

"Simply  knocked  out.  He's  in  luck.  It's  mighty 
hard  to  keep  a  dog  these  days;  and  yet  I  can't 
honestly  blame  the  motorists.  The  animals  will 
run  at  the  cars.  This  is  a  particularly  fine  breed. 
Never  saw  anything  like  him  around  these  parts. 
Big  and  strong  enough  to  tackle  bear."  He  began 
to  pat  the  broad  head.  And  the  wag  of  the  tail 
became  more  energetic. 

The  girl  on  her  part  began  to  observe.  First, 
the  hand,  which  was  lean  and  brown  and  well  kept. 
The  sleeve  of  the  shirt,  however,  was  frayed  at  the 
cuff.  The  shirt  also  lacked  the  top  button,  and 
there  was  a  sunburned  patch  at  the  base  of  the 
throat.  Brown  corduroys,  such  as  Italian  road- 
menders  wore;  and  the  hems  were  tucked  into 
dusty  russet  half -boots.  (As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Cathewe  kept  these  togs  in  the  office,  where  he 
could  don  them  whenever  the  lure  of  the  highway 
called,  which  was  every  day  when  the  weather  was 
good.)  The  sight  of  his  face,  however,  had  the 
effect  of  a  blow.  Where  had  she  seen  this  hand- 
some, vigorous  face  before?  Somewhere;  she 
was  positive  of  that.  Fine,  sensitive  gray  eyes  and 
a  mouth  which  would  have  been  called  beautiful  in 
a  woman.  And  above  this  mouth  she  saw  the  rep- 
lica of  her  father's  nose.  Then,  from  the  corner  of 
her  eye,  she  saw  the  book.  Jules  Fabre,  in  the 
original!  The  face  and  hands  of  an  artist,  the 


70  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

clothes  of  a  day-labourer,  and  a  volume  of  Fabre  on 
insects !     She  almost  forgot  th  e  dog . 

Here  Sandy  struggled  to  his  feet,  sniffed  the  grass, 
his  mistress's  dress,  the  man's  boots,  then  shook 
himself,  rather  groggily  though,  as  all  dogs  shake 
themselves  upon  coming  out  of  water. 

"Sandy  is  all  right.  Eh,  old  top?"  Cathewe 
held  out  his  hand. 

The  dog  eyed  the  hand,  quizzically,  and  ap- 
proached.    He   permitted   the   strange   hand   to 
stroke  his  head,  and  his  tail  wagged  a  little. 
"  Well ! "  said  Betty,  getting  up. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"Sandy  never  permits  strangers  to  touch  him." 

"But  I'm  no  stranger" — whimsically. 

"What? — you  have  met  him  before?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     But  all  dogs  know  me,"  said  Cathewe, 

picking   up   his   book.     "Fine   comrades,    aren't 

they?    You  never  have  to  explain  anything  to 

them;  they  fall  in  with,  they  never  resent,  your 

moods.     To  be  a  kind  of  god  to  something!    We 

humans  first  began  to  love  dogs  because  they 

flattered  us.     I  had  a  little  dog  a  while  gone.     He 

was  just  plain  dog.     His  pedigree  was  as  numerous 

as  a  zebra's  stripes.     But  that  didn't  matter.     We 

understood  each  other  at  once.     Whenever  he  laid 

his  head  on  my  knees  and  looked  into  my  eyes,  I 

wanted  to  be  a  better  man  if  I  could.     But  a  city 


The  Mail  With  Three  Names         71 

man  cannot  keep  a  dog  these  days.  They  will 
dash  at  the  motors.  And  Diogenes  paid  the  pen- 
alty." 

"He  was  killed?" 

"Yes.     Instantly." 

"I'm  sorry.  Diogenes.  To  die,  after  having 
found  an  honest  man!"  She  smiled. 

"I  wonder."  He  let  his  gaze  stray  off  toward 
the  lake.  "Am  I  honest,  or  do  I  merely  think  I 
am  honest?" 

Of  all  the  unusual  men !  was  her  thought.  What 
a  beautiful  head !  Certainly  she  had  seen  it  before. 
But  where?  She  must  find  out  who  he  was.  No 
man  so  odd  as  this  one  could  wander  about  Ban- 
nister without  being  known. 

"What  makes  you  wonder?"  she  asked. 

"A  thoroughly  honest  man  ought  not  to  be  put- 
ting his  honesty  through  the  mill  of  self-analysis; 
and  that's  what  I  have  been  doing  of  late." 

"Pardon,  but  I  really  want  to  know.  Have  I 
ever  met  you  before?" 

"  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  me  from  your  car." 

"Probably  that  is  it.  Fabre.  You  are  reading 
him  in  the  original?" 

"Good  mental  exercise." 

"I  suppose  the  ant's  life  must  be  very  interest- 
ing to  you." 

"Indeed,  all  life  is  interesting.     Come  along.     I 


72  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

will  show  you  an  ant  city,  a  Canton  of  the  insect 
world." 

She  ought  to  have  thanked  him  and  declined; 
but  her  curiosity  was  of  the  most  compelling  kind, 
so  she  followed  him  afield,  the  dog  at  her  heels. 

Presently  the  philosopher  came  to  a  broad,  flat 
stone.  Very  carefully  he  put  his  fingers  under  the 
edge  and  with  a  quick  heave  sent  the  stone  over. 
The  cavity  was  aswarm  with  ants.  Battalions 
and  regiments  scurried  about. 

"They  seem  panic-stricken,  but  they  are  not. 
Now  watch.  See  all  those  white  eggs?  " 

She  gazed  fascinatedly  at  the  black  atoms. 
They  were  taking  hold  of  the  eggs  and  drawing 
them  rapidly  into  innumerable  subways.  Within 
two  minutes  there  were  but  half  a  dozen  ants 
visible.  These  crossed  and  recrossed  the  city  to 
see  if  any  stores  had  been  overlooked  in  the  retreat. 
At  length  they,  too,  disappeared. 

"  Why,  it  is  wonderful !"  she  exclaimed.  "  And  I 
have  passed  stones  like  this  all  my  life,  and  never 
dreamed  of  what  was  seething  beneath.  Thanks." 

"All  cities — human  cities — would  look  like  that, 
if  you  tore  off  the  roofs.  But  this  is  an  ancient 
affair  to  me.  As  a  boy  I  used  to  watch  these  ants, 
and  I'm  afraid  I  poked  them  up  a  bit.  Fabre  only 
renewed  my  interest.  Notice  the  grass  roots. 
These  shore  up  the  thousand  labyrinths.  Rather 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          73 

wonderful,  isn't  it?"  He  waved  a  hand  toward 
the  surrounding  hills.  "Teeming  with  life  and 
eternal  war.  And  once  again  human  beings  must 
try  their  hand  at  it.  'What  fools  these  mortals 
be!'  " 

She  felt  vaguely  disappointed.  "You  are  a 
pacifist?" 

" Good  heavens,  no!  But  it's  all  so  horribly  use- 
less. It  makes  me  sad.  The  world — the  earth — 
so  generous  and  kindly,  and  men  must  go  on  killing 
each  other.  And  this  war  will  last  a  hundred 
years.  Four  or  five  years  of  war  and  ninety-five 
years  of  hate.  And  soon  we  shall  be  hurled  into 
it." 

"You  believe  that?" 

"We  are  a  white  people,  aren't  we?  But  we 
are  like  a  bear  I  once  saw  in  the  zoo.  He  was 
asleep.  The  attendant  began  to  prod  him  with  a 
long  pole.  The  bear  stirred  uneasily.  The  at- 
tendant, full  of  malice,  persisted.  After  a  few 
minutes  of  this  baiting,  the  bear  suddenly  raised 
his  head,  caught  the  pole  in  his  jaws  and  dragged  it 
from  the  attendant's  hands,  and  broke  it  into 
splinters.  Then  he  raged  up  and  down  the  bars, 
wanting  nothing  so  much  as  to  treat  the  attendant 
as  he  had  treated  the  pole.  Well,  when  we  wake 
up,  there  won't  be  any  bars.  .  .  .  See  those 
little  white  butterflies?  Always  exterminate  them, 


74  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

for  they  bring  blight  to  flowers.  There's  an- 
other flat  stone.  Suppose  we  investigate?" 

The  Airedale,  having  by  this  time  fully  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  his  accident,  began  to  inspect 
sundry  rabbit  and  woodchuck  holes,  enlarging 
some  of  them  futilely. 

Ostensibly  Betty  was  interested  in  the  new  ant 
city;  but  her  eyes  did  not  convey  any  memorable 
impressions  to  her  brain;  that  was  busy  with 
conjecture.  A  gentleman  of  her  own  sort,  because 
he  was  courteous  and  unembarrassed.  Apparently 
he  knew  that  she  was  Dunleigh  Mansfield's 
daughter,  and  was  not  in  the  least  awed  by  the 
fact.  That  rather  pleased  her.  He  did  not  in- 
troduce himself,  which  was  another  good  sign.  It 
left  her  free  to  recognize  him  the  next  time  they 
met  or  to  pass  him  by.  She  was  quite  confident 
that  he  was  not  a  native  of  Bannister.  An  out- 
of-doors  man  and  a  scholar;  the  shabby  clothes 
now  fitted  into  the  scheme  of  things.  Men  did 
not  pursue  their  studies  in  natural  history,  dressed 
as  for  a  tea  party.  Who  and  what  was  he  ?  Nancy 
Maddox  would  know,  for  Nancy  knew  everybody 
in  Bannister.  He  would  be  very  easy  to  describe. 
Doubtless  she  would  be  meeting  him  during  the 
winter.  She  still  retained  the  vague  impression, 
however,  that  she  had  seen  him  before,  and  not  in 
Bannister. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          75 

Cathewe  discoursed  lightly  and  fluently  and  in- 
terspersed his  impromptu  lecture  on  natural  history 
with  a  few  happy  jests.  He  talked  like  a  man  who 
was  intensely  interested  in  his  subject.  And  yet, 
back  of  this  ready  flow  of  words,  back  of  the  knowl- 
edge that  impelled  them,  was  another  thought. 
She  was  lovely  and  unspoiled.  Somehow  he 
wished  she  had  been  a  bit  offish,  a  little  more  arti- 
ficial; this  would  have  confirmed  the  opinion  he 
had  formed  of  her.  Lovely  and  unspoiled;  and 
yet  she  could  dance.  He  could  not  stifle  his  con- 
tempt for  any  who  could  frivol  these  dreadful 
times.  The  young  woman  in  America  would  not 
understand.  Over  yonder  the  world  was  on  fire; 
and  over  here,  syncopated  music,  laughter,  in- 
difference, wastefulness. 

The  solution,  he  supposed,  in  this  instance,  lay 
in  the  fact  that  she  was  Dunleigh  Mansfield's 
daughter;  her  indifference  was  a  part  of  her  in- 
heritance. He  must,  then,  crush  out  with  all  the 
force  he  possessed  the  sentiment  which  had  pri- 
marily brought  him  to  Bannister.  It  was  all 
utterly  impossible,  however  one  looked  at  it.  He 
was  waging  bitter  warfare  against  her  father,  who, 
though  powerful  and  ruthless,  was  rushing  blindly 
to  his  doom.  Out  of  a  lightly  spoken  jest,  a  grim 
earnestness.  He  must  not  meet  her  again ;  he  must 
sedulously  avoid  her.  He  realized  now  that  he 


76  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

would  be  forced  to  tell  Nancy  of  this  chance  meeting. 
He  must  warn  her  not  to  disclose  his  identity. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  request  of  this 
sort  would  serve  only  to  fill  Nancy  with  wonder 
and  question.  And  the  principal  question  would 
be:  Why  should  he  care  whether  Betty  Mansfield 
found  out  that  he  was  seeking  the  political  downfall 
of  her  father?  Which,  later,  was  precisely  the 
question  that  did  enter  Nancy's  head. 

"Thank  you,"  he  heard  Betty  say.  "It  has 
been  very  interesting.  I  have  read  Maeterlinck 
on  the  bee,  but  Fabre  is  an  undiscovered  country. 
Come,  Sandy;  we  must  be  going." 

There  was  an  impulse  to  offer  her  hand  to  this 
unusual  young  man,  but  she  smothered  it.  She 
turned  back  toward  the  highway,  the  dog  leaping 
and  barking  joyously. 

"A  lucky  dog,"  said  Cathewe,  smiling.  "He 
has  defied  the  law  of  irresistible  force  and  lives  to 
tell  of  it.  Good  afternoon." 

He  crossed  over  to  his  boulder  and  once  more 
reclined  against  the  sun-warmed  granite  surface. 
He  waited  for  a  little  time,  then  peered  around. 
Her  hat  was  just  vanishing  down  the  drop  of  the 
hill.  He  opened  his  book — upside  down. 

"  The  postern  gate ! "  he  murmured. 

At  half  after  five  Nancy  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised by  the  advent  of  Betty. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          77 

"Nancy,  I've  had  the  queerest  adventure,"  be- 
gan Betty  at  once,  and  rather  breathlessly.  "No; 
I  don't  want  any  tea.  I  came  for  some  infor- 
mation. It  was  so  droll  and  unusual." 

And  lightly — with  those  Gallic  gestures  which 
came  so  naturally — she  recounted  what  had  taken 
place  on  top  of  the  hill. 

"Dressed  like  a  tramp  and  reads  Fabre  in  the 
original,"  mused  Nancy.  She  was  about  to  hazard 
a  guess  when  the  telephone  in  her  father's  office 
rang.  "Just  a  moment,  Betty.  Telephone.  It 
may  be  some  patient  of  father's."  Once  at  the 
instrument  she  recognized  Cathewe's  voice. 

"Nancy,  I've  had  rather  an  odd  experience;  and 
I'm  going  to  depend  upon  you  to  help  me  out.  I've 
met  Mansfield's  daughter.  She  may  be  curious. 
Please  do  not  disclose  my  identity.  You  under- 
stand? Mansfield  and  I  are  at  war.  I  want  to 
avoid  her.  Tell  me,  what  is  she  like?  " 

"Do  you  think  she  is  beautiful?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Anybody  could  see  that  with  half  an 
eye." 

"Then,"  said  Nancy,  loyally,  "interpret  her 
beauty  as  the  condition  of  her  heart  and  mind. 
She  looks  upon  her  father  as  a  demigod.  She 
knows  absolutely  nothing.  There  is  no  one  to 
hint  even.  Your  newspaper  never  enters  the 
house.  And  she  is  here  in  the  living  room  at  this. 


78  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

very  minute,  asking  about  you.  Your  call  inter- 
rupted me  just  as  I  was  about  to  tell  her.  Do 
you  want  me  to  lie,  Brand?" 

"Lie?  Lord,  no!  Only,  I  don't  want  her  to 
know  who  I  am." 

"Sooner  or  later  she  will  find  it  out.  And  why 
in  the  world  should  you  care?  " 

"Very  well.  I'm  sorry.  Don't  lie  on  my  ac- 
count. Tell  her  if  you  must.  Good-bye." 

Slowly  Nancy  set  the  receiver  on  the  hook. 
She  did  not  hasten  back  to  her  guest.  Why  was 
her  heart  heavy  with  foreboding?  What  mat- 
tered it  to  Brandon  Cathewe  whether  Betty  knew 
who  or  what  he  was?  It  was  inevitable  that  Betty 
should  learn  sooner  or  later.  Why  this  concern, 
when  Cathewe  was  quite  as  ruthless  in  his  pursuit 
of  justice  as  Dunleigh  Mansfield  was  in  pursuit  of 
his  dollars?  She  returned  to  the  living  room. 

"Dressed  like  a  tramp,"  she  repeated,  "and 
reads  Fabre  in  the  original.  It  might  be  one  of 
your  father's  chemists.  There  is  a  small  army  of 
them  out  there,  and  there  are  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  among  them." 

"I  can  find  out.  He  was  so  unusual,"  said 
Betty.  "  He  knew  who  I  was." 

"And  he  did  not  introduce  himself ? " 

"He  did  not  even  offer  to  shake  hands  when  I 
left  him." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          79 

Nancy  hated  lies,  and  she  hated  herself  for  telling 
this  one,  when  it  was  not  obligatory  in  the  least. 
She  was  a  little  afraid.  Later,  she  would  attempt 
to  analyze  this  perverse  impulse,  and  she  vaguely 
dreaded  what  the  analysis  might  reveal. 

After  his  interview  with  Nancy,  Cathewe  went 
in  to  his  mother. 

"Play  something  before  the  maid  comes  in  to 
light  up." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  play,  Sonny?" — in  a 
soft,  Southern  drawl. 

"Rachmaninoff's  Prelude." 

"Then  things  aren't  well  with  you?"  How 
easy  it  had  become  to  read  the  boy's  moods  by 
the  kind  of  music  he  wanted!  It  was  always  in- 
dicative. The  brave  heart  of  him ! 

"No,  mother.  Things  aren't  as  smooth  as  they 
might  be.  Of  course  I  can  keep  the  paper  going. 
The  circulation  is  climbing;  and  if  I  hang  on  long 
enough,  the  advertisers  will  have  to  come  back. 
What  bothers  me  at  this  moment  is  the  other 
phase  of  the  affair." 

"The  girl?" — a  little  stab  in  his  mother's  heart. 

"Yes.  I  met  her  to-day  in  the  fields.  I  can't 
quite  make  her  out." 

"You  still  believe  you  are  in  love  with  her?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  honestly  don't  know.  How 
can  I  love  her,  when  I  have  set  out  to  destroy  her 


80  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

father,  or  at  least  render  him  impotent?  I  can't 
have  her  and  wreck  him,  too,  and  I  can't  honour- 
ably let  him  go.  The  devil  and  deep  blue  sea.  I 
started  something,  didn't  I?  Well,  I'll  finish  it," 
and  there  was  metal  in  his  tone.  "Come  along 
and  play  for  me." 

She  sat  on  the  bench,  but  she  did  not  begin  the 
Prelude.  Instead,  she  struck  the  opening  bars  of 
Farwell's  Norwegian  Song,  plaintive  rather  than 
melancholy.  She  could  dimly  see  him,  his  chin 
in  his  palms,  staring  at  a  pattern  in  the  Chinese 
rug. 

And  as  she  played  her  thoughts  travelled  afar, 
to  the  youth  of  this  singular  man-child  of  hers. 
She  could  see  him  under  the  great  plane-tree, 
poring  over  books,  odd  books  for  a  little  boy  to 
read— "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  Pope's  "Iliad,"  "Morte 
D'Arthur,"  "Jehan  Froissard."  And  the  curious 
way  he  had  of  translating  himself  into  his  favourite 
heroes  and  creating  magnificent  exploits  of  his 
own!  She  had  not  understood  then.  Those  swift 
and  fiery  impulses  which  had  once  puzzled  her 
were  now  all  understandable.  God  had  given 
her  one  of  those  strange  fledglings  men  call 
geniuses. 

"Better?" 

"I  am  always  better  when  I  am  with  you, 
mother.  Life  is  an  astonishing  mess,  isn't  it? 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          81 

For  the  innocent  as  well  as  for  the  guilty.  I,  who 
have  never  wittingly  harmed  any  one  or  done  a 
mean  thing,  I  must  always  carry  with  me  the  sense 
of  being  hunted — the  fear  of  being  found  out. 
And  I  have  dragged  you  into  it." 

"  I  had  to  come,  Sonny.  I  am  your  mother.  But 
never  mind.  God  will  untangle  the  web.  I  have 
only  one  fear — that  this  Mansfield  will  stumble 
upon  the  truth." 

"In  that  case,  a  new  name  and  a  new  faring 
forth.  Ishmael  and  his  mother!  I  should  not 
care  if  I  stood  alone.  Over  in  Italy,  who  would 
bother  or  care?  But  here  it  is  different.  We 
would  be  shunned  like  lepers.  I  told  Doctor 
Maddox.  And  he  understood." 

"You  told  him?" 

"The  name  only.  He  did  not  get  the  sig- 
nificance at  first;  but  when  he  did,  he  came  to  me. 
Oh,  it  is  safe  enough  there.  He's  the  dearest  old 
chap.  He  gives  more  than  half  his  time  away. 
I've  known  him  to  desert  a  lucrative  patient  to 
administer  to  the  poor  for  nothing,  even  buying 
their  medicine  for  them.  I  don't  know  why  I 
told  him.  I  just  did,  that  was  all." 

"Sonny,  I'd  be  very  happy  with  Nancy  as  my 
daughter." 

"The  substance  rather  than  the  mirage.  But 
I  don't  love  her,  mother.  I  know  that.  But  is 


82  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

the  other  a  mirage?  Nancy  says  not.  What  a 
muddle!  My  new  book — I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to 
chuck  it.  There  are  too  many  other  things  buzzing 
about  in  my  head.  Here  comes  Mignon.  Dinner's 
ready." 


CHAPTER  VH 

IN  THE  great  manor  on  Polygon  Hill,  Betty 
sat  curled  up  on  the   broad   window-seat, 
watching  the  receding  gold  and  scarlet  of  the 
September  sunset.     That  is,  she  seemed  to  be 
watching  it.     In  reality,  she  was  just  recovering 
from  a  stunning,  paralyzing  mental  blow.     The 
door  to  the  Apocalypse  had  opened  slightly.     On 
her  knees  lay  a  crumpled  newspaper.     She  found 
it  on  the  floor  of  the  limousine,  where  some  sar- 
donic jester  had  tossed  it. 

"My  father!  ...  They  lie,  they  lie!" 
She  sprang  up,  tore  the  offending  sheet  into 
ribbons  and  rammed  them  down  with  her  boot  in- 
to the  waste-basket.  Then  she  began  to  pace  the 
room,  rocking  her  head  slightly.  She  did  not  know 
what  it  meant,  but  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the 
Mansfield  blood  was  in  the  ascendant.  Every 
pulse-beat  of  it  demanded  instant  reprisal — venge- 
ance. By  and  by  she  flung  herself  upon  the  bed. 

Down  below,  in  the  study,  a  local  banker  eyed 
the  end  of  his  cigar  through  half-closed  lids. 
Mansfield,  his  fingers  pyramided,  watched  him 
expectantly. 

83 


84  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Do  you  want  some  unsolicited  advice?"  asked 
the  banker,  finally. 

"Go  ahead  with  it,"  said  Mansfield,  smiling 
tolerantly. 

"Beat  him  to  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"Clean  up  these  grogshops,  which  you  really 
own.  Tear  down  your  rotten  fire-traps.  Give 
the  reform  candidate  the  city  hall  to  play  with 
for  two  years.  Anticipate  the  .young  anarchist. 
Disarm  him." 

Mansfield  laughed.  "You  are  nearing  your 
second  childhood.  You  ought  to  know  that  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  getting  scared." 

"Well,  I  am.  My  vision  is  clearing  up,  fast. 
Legally,  you  are  practically  unassailable.  It  is 
the  moral  side  of  it  that  will  break  you  in  the  end." 

"Break  me?  "  — incredulously. 

"Yes.  Dunleigh,  this  war  is  clearing  up  a  lot  of 
fog.  The  people  are  thinking.  They  are  finding 
the  true  cleavage  between  right  and  wrong.  I 
warn  you,  they  are  going  to  do  away  with  this 
political  game  as  you  and  I  know  it.  There  is  a 
tremendous  agitation  going  on.  If  we  get  into  this 
war — and  it  now  looks  quite  likely  to  me — there 
will  be  millions  of  soldiers  returning  some  day; 
and  we  older  chaps  will  be  wise  to  get  our  house  in 
order  against  that  day.  A  tide  is  rising.  Down 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          85 

in  the  city  I  feel  it.  Up  here  you  don't.  It 
would  be  a  good  idea  to  see  which  way  this  world 
is  going  to  roll  in  order  to  keep  your  feet.  This 
fellow  Cathewe  is  no  ordinary  disturber.  I'm 
beginning  to  admire  him.  He  knows  exactly  what 
he  wants.  He  never  wastes  a  word;  and  his  sim- 
plicity has  a  downright  touch  of  genius  in  it.  I 
defy  you  to  find  a  libel  in  his  editorial  comments. 
That  boy  goes  down  among  men.  He  hasn't 
accused  you  of  doing  anything  criminal  as  under- 
stood by  law.  He  attacks  you  from  the  moral 
side.  Mark  me,  he'll  soon  be  after  your  new 
munitions  plant.  You  are  weak  there,  Dunleigh. 
A  scientific  agglomeration  of  shacks,  for  high  ex- 
plosives; but  water  is  lacking,  in  sufficiency, 
anyhow.  The  temporary  hospital  you  have  erected 
is  too  near  the  tanks.  An  explosion  would 
knock  it  to  flinders.  A  serious  explosion  would 
wreck  half  the  town.  Germany  isn't  going  to  let 
that  go  on  without  some  attempt  to  put  it  out  of 
business." 

"That  hospital  was  the  fool  architect's  fault. 
It  looked  all  right  in  the  plans." 

"Remedy  it." 

"At  the  cost  of  seven  thousand?     No,  thanks." 

The  banker  shrugged.  "Still,  I'd  fix  the  water, 
if  I  were  you." 

"Let  the  city  fire  department  advise  me." 


86  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"They  are  afraid  of  you,  and  you  know  it.  If 
anything  does  happen  out  there — for  lack  of  water 
— it  will  be  criminal  negligence;  and  this  fellow 
Cathewe  will  hang  your  hide  on  his  wall.  I'm 
talking  plainly  to  you  because  I  am  your  friend. 
And  I  consider  my  advice  sound.  All  right.  For 
the  moment  we'll  drop  that,  and  take  up  this 
editor.  You  wrote  me  to  investigate  his  financial 
standing.  I  have." 

"Well,  how  much  has  he  borrowed  to  keep  his 
vituperous  rag  going?  " 

"Nothing." 

"What?  You  mean  he  hasn't  borrowed  on  his 
notes?" 

"Not  a  penny." 

"How  has  he  kept  going  on,  then?" 

"I'll  come  to  that  in  a  moment.  There  are  but 
seven  stockholders  in  all.  They  have  promised 
never  to  dispose  of  their  interests  to  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  the  rag.  All  I  need  is  to 
have  him  lose  his  following." 

"And  he  isn't  losing  it.  The  paper's  circulation 
is  growing  daily,  despite  the  fact  that  you  struck 
off  his  local  advertising.  Something  really  vital 
is  going  on.  The  poor  are  beginning  to  boycott  the 
shops  that  have  withdrawn  their  advertising  at 
your  command.  Soon  the  advertisers  will  drift 
back  of  necessity." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          87 

Mansfield  frowned. 

"Dunleigh,  there's  a  mystery  I  can't  get  to  the 
bottom  of.  There  are  four  banks  in  Bannister. 
Being  president  of  one  of  them  and  a  stockholder 
in  all  of  them,  I  am  in  a  position  to  find  out  things. 
This  young  fellow  Cathewe  has  an  active  account 
in  each  bank,  and  it  is  evident  that  he  is  paying 
the  losses  out  of  his  pocket.  Once  a  month  he 
replenishes  these  withdrawals." 

"Drafts  on  New  York?" 

"Cash.     Nothing  traceable." 

"How  much  is  his  active  account  in  each  bank?" 
Mansfield  could  not  disguise  his  growing  bewilder- 
ment. 

"One  hundred  thousand  dollars,  cash!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEARLY  half  a  million?"  gasped  Mans- 
field, with  a  full  feeling  in  his  throat. 
"  Yes.  I  repeat,"  continued  thebanker : 
"there's  a  mystery  here  that's  beyond  me.  Some- 
where there  is  a  vast  fortune  behind  this  young  fellow. 
Four  hundred  thousand  will  keep  his  paper  going 
without  advertisements  for  ten  years.  Another 
queer  thing.  I  don't  know  about  the  other  banks, 
but  at  mine  he  has  two  accounts,  one  general  and 
one  special.  The  general  account  is  never  more 
than  two  or  three  thousand.  This  is  added  to  from 
time  to  time  by  money  orders  payable  to  Brandon 
Cathewe.  The  special  account  is  never  drawn 
against  except  to  pay  the  paper's  pay-checks  and 
expenses.  Not  a  postage-stamp  out  of  that  for 
his  own  use.  He  lives  simply.  The  only  servant 
is  a  maid  who  does  general  housework.  His 
mother  is  a  charming  and  beautiful  woman  who 
plays  the  piano  magnificently.  Beyond  these 
facts,  a  blank  wall  as  thick  as  the  Grand  Canon. 
Dunleigh,  better  get  the  rights  of  the  game.  Four 
hundred  thousand,  behind  a  newspaper  like  the 
Herald,  has  a  tremendous  power.  My  advice  is 

88 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          89 

to  get  your  political  and  financial  house  in  order." 
The  banker  rose. 

"It's  in  pretty  good  order  as  it  is,  Dawson.  I'm 
an  ironmonger  by  trade.  I  know  how  to  handle 
hot  irons." 

The  banker  laughed.  "The  trouble  is,  you've 
never  been  licked.  That's  the  matter  with  you. 
Well,  it's  my  belief  that  this  young  David  has 
never  been  licked,  either.  And  he  is  acquiring  an 
asset  more  powerful  than  money." 

"And  that  is?" 

"Public  opinion.  It's  beginning  to  push  up 
behind  him  in  this  odd  campaign.  Never  mind 
coming  to  the  door.  I  can  find  the  way." 

For  a  long  time  Mansfield  sat  perfectly  motion- 
less, but  his  brain  was  active  enough.  Upon  anal- 
ysis, he  found  that  his  assurance  had  received 
an  astounding  jolt.  Four  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars !  The  Mansfield  millions,  then,  would  have  no 
more  force  against  this  newspaper  than  so  many 
feathers  in  the  wind.  For  once  he  was  confronted 
with  a  situation  to  which  there  seemed  to  be  no 
handle.  As  Dawson  said,  it  was  red-hot.  There 
was  no  denying  it;  he  might  as  well  face  it  squarely. 
In  a  manner  that  smacked  of  miracles,  the  young 
fellow  had  actually  become  a  force  in  Bannister. 
Why  did  he  not  come  forward  and  demand  that 
he,  Mansfield,  fulfil  his  side  of  that  bargain?/ 


90  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  surge  of  resentment  on  Betty's 
account. 

He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room. 
The  madman  had  said  definitely  that  he  loved 
Betty.  He  had  come  to  Bannister  to  make  good 
in  order  that  he  might  have  the  right  to  pay  court 
to  Betty.  Mansfield  was  sportsman  enough  to 
admit  that  the  young  scoundrel  had  come  through. 
But  by  a  singular  twist  of  events  he  had  put  him- 
self beyond  the  pale,  so  far  as  Dunleigh  Mansfield's 
daughter  was  concerned.  He  had,  as  it  were,  con- 
ducted himself  like  an  untrained  hound;  taken  up 
one  scent  and  let  another  lure  him  away,  which, 
after  all,  was  very  satisfying  to  Betty's  father. 

But  four  hundred  thousand  dollars!  Mans- 
field tugged  at  his  crisp  moustache.  That  signified 
caste;  and  reluctantly  he  was  forced  to  admit  that 
he  had  a  respectable  enemy. 

All  these  cogitations  only  enlarged  his  deter- 
mination to  crush  the  upstart.  There  would  be 
some  flaw.  No  man  was  perfect.  There  would 
be  a  chink  in  the  armour.  The  thing  was  to  find 
out  where  this  fortune  came  from. 

A  droll  idea  entered  Mansfield's  head.  He  was 
not  without  humour.  So  he  returned  to  his  desk, 
looked  into  the  telephone  book,  and  called  a  num- 
ber. A  woman's  voice  answered.  It  was  a  sweet, 
drawling  voice. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          91 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  Mr.  Cathewe." 

"He  is  in  his  study  and  cannot  be  disturbed." 

"It  is  Dunleigh  Mansfield  who  is  talking." 

"Just  a  moment,  please." 

Three  or  four  minutes  passed. 

"Hello!  This  is  Mr.  Cathewe.  What  do  you 
wish  to  speak  to  me  about?" 

"I  wish  to  ask  you  some  questions,  frankly.  I 
am  curious,  among  other  things,  to  learn  why  you 
hate  me." 

"I  do  not  hate  you.  My  attitude  is  absolutely 
impersonal.  In  some  respects  I  greatly  admire 
you;  in  others,  I  look  upon  you  with  con- 
tempt." 

Mansfield  suppressed  the  wrath  that  boiled  up. 
"That's  blunt  enough.  What  would  you  say  if  I 
expressed  the  opinion  that  you  carried  out  your 
part  of  the  bargain,  and  that  the  hour  had  arrived 
for  me  to  carry  out  mine?  " 

A  long  pause.  "Events  have  made  that  im- 
possible. I  release  you." 

"You  do  not  hold  me,  then?" 

"No." 

"  I  see.     You  are  fickle  by  nature." 

"No.  But  I  am  suspicious.  You  are  laying  a 
trap  for  me." 

"  Indeed,  no.  I  am  merely  satisfying  a  curiosity. 
I  am  very  happy  to  learn  that  you  have  such 


92  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

good  sense  of  values.  Still,  I  am  a  good  loser.  I 
will  introduce  you  to  my  daughter.'* 

"Between  your  daughter  and  me  there  is  the 
space  of  two  worlds.  I  regret  that  folly  on  board 
the  ship.  Moreover,  I  am  a  poor  man,  Mr. 
Mansfield.  I  did  not  know,  until  I  arrived  here, 
that  your  daughter  was  one  of  the  richest  heiresses 
in  America." 

"Poor!" 

"Yes.  Every  dollar  I  have  in  this  world  I  earn 
by  honest  labour." 

"I  don't  quite  get  that.  I  have  been  duly  in- 
formed that  you  have  on  deposit  nearly  half  a 
million." 

Another  pause.  "That  money  does  not  belong 
to  me,  Mr.  Mansfield." 

Mansfield  heard  a  click,  and  he  knew  that  Cath- 
ewe  had  abruptly  concluded  the  remarkable  inter- 
view. He  laid  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  slowly, 
still  retaining  it  in  his  grasp.  Didn't  belong  to  him ! 
That  four  hundred  thousand,  which  was  constantly 
being  replenished  from  secret  sources,  was  not 
Cathewe's!  Cathewe  would  be  the  last  man  in 
the  world  to  lie  about  it,  under  the  existing  cir- 
cumstances. 

Mansfield  sank  back  in  his  chair,  about  as  com- 
pletely bewildered  as  he  had  ever  been  in  all  his 
life.  With  furrowed  brow  he  searched  all  avenues. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          93 

Particularly  one,  the  only  one  that  seemed  logical. 
Who  among  his  great  financial  enemies  would  seek 
to  hector  him  on  the  moral  side  and  let  his  attrac- 
tive millions  be?  The  question — the  absurdity  of 
it — blocked  this  avenue  at  once.  There  remained 
but  one  other.  Some  rich  fool  of  a  philanthropist 
was  backing  this  hair-brained  Galahad.  Dawson 
was  right.  There  was  an  abysmal  mystery  here. 

His  original  deduction  began  to  lose  its  pro- 
portions, began  to  break  and  vanish  like  mist  in 
the  sunshine.  No  son  of  a  fallen  enemy  would 
have  such  backing  as  this  rogue  Cathewe  had. 
A  form  of  confusion  began  to  edge  into  his  mind. 
And  thereafter  the  thought  of  Cathewe  always  re- 
awoke  it,  jumbling  perspectives.  The  point  is, 
Mansfield  missed  the  truth  because  he  did  not 
believe  there  existed  in  the  world  a  purely  disinter- 
ested man.  He  could  not  get  away  from  the  idea 
that  Cathewe  was  here  in  Bannister  with  an  axe  to 
grind.  But  he  was  determined  to  solve  the  riddle, 
if  money  and  patience  amounted  to  anything. 

He  then  wrote  two  letters.  The  first  was  local. 
It  was  to  the  chief  of  police.  It  demanded  as 
quickly  as  possible  a  good  photograph  of  Brandon 
Cathewe.  It  did  not  matter  how  it  was  obtained. 
The  second  letter  was  directed  to  a  celebrated  de- 
tective agency  in  New  York.  The  best  man  they 
had  was  wanted  immediately. 


94          The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Dinner  is  served,  sir,"  announced  the  butler 
from  the  doorway. 

"Is  Miss  Betty  down?" 

"She  begs  to  be  excused,  sir." 

"Is  she  ill?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  I  knocked  on  her  door,  and 
she  told  me  she  would  not  be  down." 

"Hold  the  dinner  until  I  see." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Mansfield  ran  upstairs  and  rapped  on  the  door 
of  his  daughter's  boudoir. 

"It  is  father,  Betty.    Are  you  ill?" 

"  No,  Daddy.     Just  tired  and  headachy." 

" May  I  come  in? " 

He  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  he 
pushed  in  the  door.  He  saw  instantly  that  she 
had  been  crying. 

"Why,  Honey,  what's  happened?" 

"I'm  ashamed!  I've  been  in  a  horrible  rage," 
she  confessed. 

He  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "And 
what  have  you  been  raging  about?"  He  drew 
her  toward  him. 

"I  .  .  .  I  saw  that  article  in  the  Herald. 
Someone  threw  it  into  the  limousine.  It  made 
me  wild  with  fury.  After  you  have  done  so  much 
for  Bannister!" 

A   warm   glow  pervaded  his  heart.    He  had 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          95 

never  sensed  a  tingle  before  comparable  to  this. 
His  girl  was  furious  because  he  had  been  attacked! 

"You  mustn't  waste  any  tears  on  that  twaddle, 
Betty.  It's  just  politics;  it's  all  a  part  of  the 
game." 

"But  I  want  you  to  fight  back.  What  would 
Bannister  do  without  you?  Your  genius  has  made 
it  rich  and  prosperous.  It  isn't  fair  to  lie  like 
that,  even  in  politics." 

Mansfield  was  a  political  boss  of  the  old  order, 
invisible.  Originally  he  had  entered  the  game 
simply  to  protect  his  vast  interests  from  political 
blackmail.  Then  the  thing  got  into  his  blood. 
He  suddenly  found  himself  invested  with  tremen- 
dous power.  He  had  always  been  fond  of  chess; 
now  he  played  it  with  men,  like  the  Indian  princes 
of  Agra.  He  cared  nothing  for  office  himself. 
That  wasn't  the  game.  The  thrill  lay  in  the 
power  to  pull  the  wires,  to  make  the  manikins 
dance  to  whatever  tune  he  chose  to  whistle. 

The  present  arraignment  related  to  the  ineffi- 
ciency of  the  local  fire  department,  where  he  kept 
three  or  four  of  his  faithful  but  now  useless  hench- 
men. It  was  his  way  of  pensioning  off  the  loyal. 
Cathewe  had  accused  him  of  placing  the  public  in 
peril  in  order  to  pay  his  political  debts.  Ordinarily, 
Mansfield  would  have  ignored  the  assault. 

"Why  should  you  care?" — curious. 


96  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Because.  .  .  ."  She  snuggled  against  his 
shoulder.  "It's  because  you  are  all  I  have, 
Daddy;  and  I  love  you." 

Mansfield  stared  over  the  bronze  bead.  What 
entered  his  heart  now  was  not  a  warm  glow.  It 
had  the  chill  and  edge  of  his  own  crucible  steel. 
There  surged  over  him  a  great  baffling  longing  to 
be  alone,  a  longing  beyond  reach  of  his  compre- 
hension. Something  had  happened — he  did  not 
know  what  it  was — and  he  felt  that  he  must  be 
alone  to  attack  the  riddle  successfully. 

"Come  along  to  dinner,  Honey.  It's  only 
politics.  I've  been  through  it  before.  There's  no 
use  bothering  your  pretty  head  about  it.  You 
haven't  got  the  hang  of  things  in  America  yet.  A 
man  in  my  position  cannot  strike  back  publicly. 
The  only  way  you  can  break  an  editor  is  to  buy 
his  sheet  and  turn  him  adrift." 

This  statement  followed  Betty  into  her  dreams 
that  night. 

"The  fellow  would  like  nothing  better  than  to 
have  me  enter  a  game  of  jousts  with  him;  and  I  re- 
fuse him  that  satisfaction.  Printer's  ink  is  the 
blackest.  You  can't  rub  it  out  any  more  than  you 
can  rub  out  a  thought,  an  idea.  Don't  you  worry. 
Your  father  knows  how  to  take  care  of  himself  in 
sports  of  this  calibre.  Come  along  to  dinner. 
I've  got  a  surprise  for  you.  I'm  sending  for  your 


The  Man  With  Three  Names          97 

aunt — your  mother's  sister.  You  ought  not  to  be 
the  only  woman  in  this  big  house.  Your  aunt  is  a 
charming  woman.  And  there  is  one  thing,  little 
lady,  I  want  you  always  to  remember:  Your 
mother's  fortune  makes  you  rich  in  your  own 
right.  Do  as  you  please  with  it.  And  when  the 
day  comes  and  you  find  a  man  of  your  fancy, 
marry  him.  I'll  trust  you  to  pick  out  one  worth 
while." 

He  laughed,  tucked  her  arm  under  his,  and  led 
her  to  the  stairs. 

Around  about  ten  that  night  you  would  have 
found  her  on  the  floor  before  her  boudoir  fire, 
reading  her  letters.  Somehow,  they  always  soothed 
her  when  she  was  troubled.  She  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  the  beautiful.  To-night,  however, 
a  singular  break  appeared  frequently.  She  would 
read  so  far  into  a  letter,  and  then  a  picture 
would  drift  in  between:  blue  sky,  blue  water,  the 
vague  scent  of  clover,  and  an  odd  young  man 
bending  over  flat  stones. 

Here,  on  her  knees,  were  the  thoughts  of  the 
perfect  lover.  And  he  had  vanished.  Who  was 
he  and  what  was  he  and  where  was  he?  Why 
should  he  have  striven  to  capture  her  interest  only 
to  end  the  romance  abruptly?  Oh,  she  knew  he 
was  alive.  Had  he  been  in  danger  he  would  have 
forewarned  her.  Had  he  been  killed  in  France,  she 


98  The  Man  With  Three  Names 

would  have  had  his  last  letter.  Why  should  he 
hurt  her  so? 

She  wanted  to  throw  the  letters  into  the  fire.  It 
was  impossible.  She  knew  that  she  would  have 
regretted  the  act  throughout  her  life.  But  to  find 
some  way  out  of  the  thralldom! 

At  length  she  tied  up  the  letters  and  rose.  To- 
morrow she  would  tour  the  offices  to  see  if  that 
strange  young  man  was  employed  there.  He 
would  serve  as  a  diversion. 

She  put  the  letters  in  a  Florentine  box,  which 
she  restored  to  a  drawer.  She  was  about  to 
close  this  when  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  slip  of 
paper.  She  drew  it  out,  returned  to  the  fire,  and 
inspected  it.  It  was  a  typewritten  list  of  the  bonds 
and  stocks  and  accumulated  funds  of  which  her 
private  fortune  consisted.  Away  down  toward 
the  end  she  came  upon  something  which  she  had 
not  noticed  previously:  "Fifty  shares  The  Ban- 
nister Morning  Herald" 

"The  only  way  you  can  break  an  editor,"  she 
murmured,  "is  to  buy  his  sheet  and  turn  him 
adrift." 

Thereupon  a  great  and  glorious  idea  popped  into 
her  head. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MANSFIELD  could  not  read.  The  Life  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini  palled.  One  of  his 
favourite  books,  and  he  could  not  get  in- 
terested in  it  because  mistily  a  bronze  head  seemed 
to  come  into  focus  whenever  his  eye  happened  to 
stray  from  the  printed  page.  Furious  on  his  ac- 
count. The  novelty  of  having  someone  senti- 
mentally interested  in  him,  someone  who  cared, 
who  could  be  hurt  to  the  point  of  tears  by  a  little 
watery  mud-slinging  such  as  this  fellow  Cathewe 
had  indulged  in ! 

He  tossed  the  volume  upon  the  table  and  got  up. 
He  lighted  a  cigar;  then  he  went  into  the  hall  for 
his  hat  and  topcoat.  He  left  the  house  through 
the  conservatory  door. 

It  was  moonlight,  and  a  stroll  about  the  gardens 
might  settle  this  unusual  mental  turmoil.  He 
saw  the  light  in  Betty's  room,  and  he  paused  to 
stare  up  at  it.  His!  His  daughter,  as  different 
from  the  run  of  girls  as  gold  is  different  from  brass. 
He  had  sent  her  away  so  as  not  to  be  bothered  by 
a  growing  child.  As  he  looked  back  he  realized 
that  he  had  never  speculated  about  her  future. 

99 


100         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Financially,  it  was  impregnable,  of  course;  and  as  a 
consequence  of  this  knowledge  he  had  never  been 
concerned  with  any  other.  He  had  never  made 
any  plans  for  her  final  home-coming.  Furious  on 
his  account,  because  she  loved  him ! 

He  passed  along  the  aisles  of  rose  bushes. 
There  were  still  some  flowers  in  bloom.  He  bent 
over  two  or  three  of  them,  for  he  was  fond  of  roses. 
This  garden  had  been  one  of  his  hobbies  for  years. 
It  was  the  one  place  hi  all  the  world  where  his 
hands  came  into  contact  with  Mother  Earth.  He 
had  always  made  it  a  point  to  be  here  in  June. 

"By  George!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  pushed  through  the  bushes  to  the  next  row, 
where  there  was  a  magnificent  pink  Arends.  He 
cut  it  with  his  penknife  and  drew  it  through  his 
buttonhole.  He  threw  away  his  half-consumed 
cigar.  One  could  always  find  tobacco,  but  a  rose 
like  this  came  but  once  or  twice  in  the  life  of  a 
bush.  He  bent  his  head  to  scent  the  cool,  fresh 
perfume.  Then  he  glanced  again  at  Betty's  win- 
dow. It  was  dark. 

Each  variety  of  rose  was  squared  off  by  paths 
paved  with  pebbles  brought  up  from  the  lake; 
then  there  would  be  a  row  of  Lombardy  poplars, 
trimmed  to  the  standard  of  eight  feet.  They 
made  excellent  hedges.  In  the  very  centre  of  the 
gardens  was  a  marble  basin,  with  a  faun  seated  at 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        101 

one  end,  his  pipes  emitting  thin  streams  of  water. 
The  atmosphere  was  Italian. 

The  tinkle  of  the  water  sounded  pleasantly  on 
Mansfield's  ears.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  chin  and 
sniffed.  Pipe  tobacco;  and  good  tobacco,  too! 
Swiftly  his  glance  roved.  Evidently  he  was  not 
alone  in  the  garden.  After  diligent  scrutiny,  he 
observed  a  shadow  on  the  far  side  of  a  hedge. 
One  of  the  gardeners?  No;  they  all  smoked  abom- 
inable weed. 

"Who's  there?"  he  demanded,  sharply. 

The  shadow  began  to  move.  Mansfield,  being 
in  vigorous  health  and  sound  of  wind,  ran  along 
the  path.  The  interloper  started  for  the  drive- 
way. Presently  he,  too,  broke  into  a  run.  As 
they  passed  the  house,  Mansfield  saw  that  he  was 
gaming.  But  the  uninvited  guest  lengthened  his 
stride  as  he  neared  the  street.  He  dashed  out  of 
the  grounds  and  turned  toward  town.  Mansfield 
made  a  short  cut,  and  arrived  at  the  sidewalk  as 
the  other  ran  across  the  street  diagonally.  This 
manoeuvre  set  his  face  under  the  full  glare  of  the 
street  lamp. 

Mansfield  stopped.  Cathewe,  prowling  around 
in  the  gardens?  Thunder-struck,  he  leaned 
against  a  maple  and  tried  to  moderate  his  breath- 
ing. Cathewe!  The  fool,  then,  was  really  in  love 
with  Betty!  He  could  give  up  the  woman  he 


102         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

loved  for  the  sake  of  an  ideal — an  ideal  which,  if 
pursued  unfalteringly,  might  break  her  father. 
Very  good.  He  would  give  this  meddling  fool  a 
handful  before  the  course  was  run.  Presently  he 
should  learn  that  hitherto  Dunleigh  Mansfield  had 
simply  been  playing  with  him. 

First  of  all,  he  must  solve  the  riddle  of  the 
fellow's  resources.  There  was  something  sinister 
behind  that  four  hundred  thousand — a  hidden 
menace.  For  no  one  knew  better  than  he  what 
money  could  do.  Four  hundred  thousand  that 
stayed  four  hundred  thousand,  no  matter  how  much 
it  was  drawn  against.  Why  this  mystery?  Why 
did  Cathewe  deny  that  it  was  his,  since  he  had  ab- 
solute control  of  it? 

Another  thing:  he  was  young  and  handsome. 
Why  did  he  ignore  the  life  of  the  town,  the  clubs? 
He  could  not  possibly  be  unused  to  that  side  of  life. 
Mansfield  recalled  plainly  his  polished  address 
that  morning  on  shipboard.  There  should  be  a 
mighty  good  cause  for  this  isolation.  He  went  to 
the  Maddox  house  a  good  deal,  and  perhaps  the 
doctor  would  be  able  to  lift  a  corner  of  the  curtain. 
At  any  rate,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  setting  a 
trap  for  Maddox. 

Mansfield  returned  to  the  house,  his  usually  cold 
and  precise  brain  off  its  balance.  The  whole  af- 
fair was  so  absurd  that  it  resembled  a  dream 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        103 

rather  than  a  reality.  He  hung  up  his  hat  and 
coat  mechanically,  plucked  the  rose  from  the 
buttonhole,  and  proceeded  to  his  room. 

"Mooning  under  Betty's  window!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

Deliberately  he  filled  a  cut-glass  vase  and  set  the 
rose  in  it.  A  glorious  flower,  pink  as  a  sleeping 
infant's  cheek.  His  thoughts  travelled  back;  but 
he  could  not  remember  Betty  in  her  cradle.  Odd, 
that  he  should  try  to  recall  Betty  in  her  cradle. 

From  this  thought  his  recollection  jumped  con- 
sistently to  another.  The  girl's  mother.  He 
touched  the  rose  with  his  finger  tips,  and  then 
pulled  at  his  chin.  In  all  these  years  he  had  not 
visited  that  grave.  He  had  argued  with  his  con- 
science that  he  hated  depressing  thoughts,  but 
to-night  the  truth  came  home.  It  had  been  too 
much  trouble.  His  years  had  been  so  crowded 
with  actions  and  affairs  that  this  shameful  neglect 
had  never  before  revealed  itself.  He  was  fifty- 
three  now;  he  was  slowing  up;  he  was  beginning  to 
notice  the  little  backwaters,  whereas  previously 
he  had  been  cognizant  only  of  the  central  cur- 
rent. 

He  had  missed  something.  No;  it  wasn't 
romance.  He  had  had  his  fill  of  that  in  steel.  He 
knew  what  he  had  missed.  It  was  the  thing  that 
had  lured  that  fellow  Cathewe  to  come  prowling 


104         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

into  the  gardens,  merely  to  stand  under  Betty's 
window.  Love. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  His  at- 
titude would  have  recalled  to  you  that  drawing  of 
Dore's — of  the  man  who  had  in  greediness  killed 
the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  eggs. 

Love.  The  thing  that  had  transformed  the 
gentle  Betty  into  a  lioness  because  he  had  been 
attacked;  that  had  set  Cathewe  down  in  this 
strange,  bustling  city,  confident  of  miracles;  that 
had  welded  together  the  Maddoxes,  father  and 
mother  and  daughter.  Even  Sandy,  the  Airedale, 
knew  what  it  was.  And  as  he  thought  of  Sandy, 
it  struck  Mansfield  as  odd  that  the  dog  had  not 
barked  and  made  Cathewe's  presence  known;  for 
Sandy  was  nolapdog. 

Slowly  he  rose,  picked  up  the  vase,  tiptoed  into 
the  hall,  and  set  it  before  Betty's  door.  He  was 
smiling  when  he  came  back,  smiling  because  he 
had  just  discovered  that  there  was  tucked  away 
in  a  far  corner  of  his  heart  a  spark  of  emo- 
tionalism, a  thing  he  had  all  his  life  scorned  as 
weakness. 

Next  morning  Betty  came  into  the  breakfast 
room  with  a  joyous  rush.  She  was  as  pleasing  to 
the  eye  as  a  summer  cloud:  in  filmy  white,  a  pink 
boudoir  cap  on  her  head,  and  the  rose  pinned  to 
her  bodice. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         105 

"Daddy  Mansfield,  did  you  put  this  rose  by  my 
door?" 

"I  found  it  in  the  garden  last  night,"  he  said, 
opening  his  newspaper. 

"  But  why  did  you  give  it  to  me  that  way?  " 

What  had  happened  to  his  brain?  he  wondered. 
He  could  not  answer  her  directly.  "I  thought 
perhaps  you  had  gone  to  bed.  There  won't  be 
many  more  this  year.  Wait  until  next  June.  I 
know  it's  hopeless  to  try  to  compete  with  southern 
France  and  Italy;  but  you'll  admit  that  there  are 
some  roses  in  your  garden." 

She  walked  over  to  him  and  stooped.  "You 
may  kiss  me  for  that.  .  .  .  No,  no!" — as  his 
moustache  brushed  her  forehead.  "I  didn't  say 
tickle  me;  I  said  kiss  me!" 

He  took  her  head  between  his  palms  and  kissed 
both  her  cheeks,  soundly.  She  ran  back  to  her 
chair  and  began  to  volley  French  at  him.  He 
stumbled  about  considerably  in  his  endeavour  to 
follow.  Finally  he  laughed. 

"You're  too  much  for  me.  My  French  is  motor 
truck  style." 

"Daddy,  I  want  to  go  back  to  France." 

* '  France  ? — back  to  the  terror  ? ' ' 

"I'm  not  afraid.  I'm  a  good  nurse.  I've  had 
good  training  in  Washington.  WTien  I  look  about 
me — luxury  everywhere — I  feel  like  a  criminal. 


106         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

My  friends,  Daddy,  that  were  so  gay  and  hand- 
some .  .  .  and  some  of  them  are  dead !  To  do 
something  with  my  hands  for  the  land  that  was 
so  kind  to  me." 

"But  /  need  you,  Honey!"  he  cried.  And  as 
the  words  passed  his  lips,  the  miracle  lay  revealed. 
That  was  it,  he  needed  her.  The  mystification  of 
the  recent  hours  was  no  more.  He  needed  her. 
The  thought  of  her  leaving  him  had  torn  away 
and  shredded  into  nothingness  the  last  bits  of  fog. 
He  needed  her.  Subtly  she  had  entered  into 
his  life  and  become  an  integral  part  of  it.  All  the 
awkwardness  of  the  situation  vanished. 

"Why  do  you  need  me,  Daddy?"  — in  a  kind  of 
terrified  whisper. 

"Because  I  love  you.  Because  I've  only  just 
found  it  out.  I've  been  a  bad  father,  Betty,  but 
God  knows  I  want  to  prove  to  you  that  I  can  be 
something  else ! " 

Five  minutes  later,  when  the  butler  came  to  see 
if  anything  more  was  wanted,  he  paused  at  the 
threshold  for  a  space,  and  silently  returned  the 
way  he  had  come.  It  was  not  for  him  to  disturb 
that  picture  in  the  bright  morning  sunshine — 
those  two  with  their  arms  wound  tightly  about 
each  other. 


CHAPTER  X 

CATHEWE'S  newspaper,  for  all  that  it  was 
losing  money  daily,  was  a  success.  Its 
editorial  opinions  began  to  be  copied  far 
and  wide  across  the  land.  He  thought  and  wrote 
clearly  upon  all  subjects.  He  possessed  that  for- 
tunate gift  of  irony  that  made  even  his  victims 
smile.  In  fact,  he  woke  up  Bannister;  and  the 
whole  town  was  watching  his  affair.  For  a  long 
time  the  poor  fought  shy  of  him;  but  by  and  by 
they  comprehended  that  an  honest  man,  who 
wanted  nothing  for  himself,  was  offering  to  aid 
them;  and  in  his  dire  need  they  flocked  to  his 
standard.  The  middle  class  and  the  intellectuals 
were  also  behind  him.  He  was  fighting  for  the 
redemption  of  the  city,  to  free  it  from  the  greedy 
clutches  of  the  political  vultures. 

His  editorials  were  full  of  punch  and  prophecy. 
Sooner  or  later  America  would  be  in.  Americans 
should  prepare  individually  against  the  inevitable 
hour.  He  never  belittled  the  Teutonic  victories. 
On  the  contrary,  he  emphasized  them,  in  order 
to  bring  home  the  danger  of  America's  further 
aloofness.  His  war-bulletin  generally  had  a 

107 


108         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

crowd  before  it;  for  this  bulletin  never  grew 
hysterical. 

He  had  gathered  about  him  the  best  staff  in  the 
city,  best  equipped  mentally  and  best  paid. 
After  eight  at  night  he  was  generally  to  be  found 
in  his  office.  His  door  was  always  open,  for  he 
was  democratic.  He  was  easily  approached, 
whether  it  was  the  new  cub  or  the  star  reporter. 
It  was  a  happy  family  of  which  he  was  the  head. 

But  he  was  losing  money.  He  had  heard  tales 
about  Moloch;  and  now  he  understood.  Each 
additional  boost  to  his  circulation  made  a  cor- 
responding loss.  Without  the  local  advertise- 
ments, this  ascending  popularity  was  becoming 
more  and  more  costly.  And  any  day  his  stock- 
holders might  sell  out.  This  would  not  nullify 
his  control,  but  it  might  add  infinite  confusion, 
internal  warfare.  Still  that  mysterious  reluctance 
to  buy  them  up.  No  matter  from  what  angle  he 
attacked  this  reluctance,  it  eluded  analysis.  And 
all  his  mother  had  in  the  world  in  jeopardy,  too! 

So  far  he  had  won  two  big  battles.  He  had 
made  the  Health  Department  an  efficient  organ- 
ization and  he  had  blocked  a  deal  by  the  local 
traction  company  (Mansfield's)  to  charge  a  six- 
cent  fare.  And  he  had  made  the  last  election  of 
Mansfield's  Congressional  candidate  extremely 
difficult.  He  had  also  made  himself  solid  with  the 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        109 

public  on  another  count.  He  had  repeatedly 
declined  to  run  for  any  office  whatsoever.  It  is  a 
curious  commentary  on  American  politics  that 
when  a  man  declines  to  run  for  office  he  is  at  once 
written  down  as  unimpeachably  honest. 

At  noon  one  day  in  October  Cathewe  came 
down  for  his  breakfast,  a  frown  between  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Sonny?"  asked  his  mother. 

"What  is  what?" 

"The  meaning  of  that  frown." 

"Oh.  Well,  I  had  a  curious  experience  at  the 
office  last  night.  I  heard  an  ahem  and  looked  up. 
Bang!  went  a  flash-light;  and  before  I  could  re- 
cover from  my  astonishment,  the  photographer 
had  vanished.  Took  a  picture  of  me — stole  it. 
And  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  It  certainly 
wasn't  done  as  a  jest." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  head .    ' '  Supposing— 

But  he  interrupted.  "I  thought  of  that.  To 
identify  me.  But  I  was  Cathewe  those  two  years 
in  New  York.  No  matter.  I'm  here  to  stick, 
mother.  I  have  found  a  rich  farrow,  and  I've 
planted  a  healthy  seed.  This  is  going  to  be  the 
home  town.  But  I  must  get  that  new  book  done. 
Our  funds  are  getting  low." 

"I  can  always  teach  music." 

"Never  again  that,  mother.  You're  never 
going  to  touch  the  piano  except  for  your  own 


110         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

pleasure.  You  are  on  the  retired  list.  I'll 
finish  my  breakfast  and  tackle  the  book  again. 
I've  had  an  offer  of  forty-five  hundred  for  the 
serial  rights,  and  I've  an  idea  that  this  yarn  will 
make  a  good  movie.  Seven  chapters  out  of 
twenty  done,  which  is  a  fair  start.  I've  got  it  all 
outlined.  It's  merely  lack  of  application.  They 
are  dramatizing  'Prosaic  Lives';  but  you  never 
can  tell  what  a  play  will  do.  If  it  fails  I  shan't 
lose  anything.  If  it  goes,  our  financial  worries 
will  be  over." 

"What  an  odd  boy  you  are,  Sonny!" 

"How  am  I  odd?" 

"You  might  have  put  your  conscience  to  sleep 
and  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land." 

"Would  you  love  me  like  you  do  if  I  had?" 

"No,  Sonny."    And  she  kissed  him. 

Shortly  after  he  entered  his  study  and  closed 
the  door.  She  saw  no  more  of  him  until  four, 
when  he  signified  that  he  was  off  for  a  walk  in  the 
hills. 

He  had  not  been  gone  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes when  Nancy's  smart  runabout  stopped  at 
the  curb.  Two  or  three  times  the  week  she 
carried  Mrs.  Cathewe  off  for  a  ride  hi  the  country. 

At  the  same  hour  to-day  father's  clattering 
chariot  of  mercy  rolled  under  the  Mansfield  porte- 
cochere.  But  more  of  that  anon. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        111 

Mrs.  Cathewe  had  to  change,  so  for  a  few 
moments  Nancy  was  left  to  her  own  devices.  She 
saw  the  study  door  wide  open;  and  impelled  by  a 
curiosity  she  could  not  define,  she  stepped  across 
the  threshold.  In  a  house  that  was  a  miracle  for 
orderliness,  this  study  afforded  her  a  shock.  Books 
scattered  over  the  floor,  the  air  filled  with  the 
strong  scent  of  tobacco,  a  desk  littered  with  paper, 
a  spindle  fat  with  notes,  a  wicker  basket  filled  to 
the  brim  with  closely  written  sheets,  a  waste- 
basket  choked  with  crumpled,  discarded  efforts. 

She  approached  the  desk  on  tiptoe,  as  if  afraid 
she  might  disturb  the  spirit  which  ruled  over  this 
room.  Three  pipes  lay  on  an  ashtray.  Pencils 
everywhere,  sharp  and  blunt.  The  one  thing  that 
had  a  touch  of  orderliness  was  the  stack  of  blank 
paper  arranged  before  the  empty  chair.  She 
could  see  that  something  had  been  written  on  the 
top  sheet,  so  she  bent  to  see  what  it  was.  A  name, 
repeated  many  times.  How  often  she  had  wasted 
paper  in  this  fashion!  The  hand  wrote  while  the 
thought  was  roving  afar. 

George  Cottar,  George  Cottar,  repeated  per- 
haps a  dozen  times. 

"George  Cottar!"  She  spoke  the  name  aloud. 
A  pile  of  manuscript  and  the  name  George  Cottar! 
The  illumination  left  her  temporarily  blinded. 
The  Brushwood  Boy — George  Cottar — Brandon 


The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Cathewe!  Without  meaning  to,  she  stumbled 
upon  a  tremendous  secret.  Why,  Brand  was  the 
novelist;  and  hiding  his  light  under  the  bushel 
like  this !  What  did  that  signify?  Why  didn't  he 
wear  his  crown,  his  laurels,  openly? 

Impulsively — at  that  moment  bereft  of  the  sense 
of  trespass — she  reached  down  into  the  waste- 
basket  and  picked  up  one  of  the  crumpled  sheets, 
and  smoothed  it  out.  A  rejected  sheet;  he  would 
never  miss  it.  So  she  folded  it  and  put  it  in  a 
pocket.  Then  she  stole  forth,  her  eyes  shining  and 
her  cheeks  aflame. 

But  once  in  the  living  room  the  enormity  of 
her  trespass  came  full  upon  her.  She  had  been 
guilty  of  a  shameful  act.  She  must  return  that 
stolen  sheet.  It  did  not  matter  that  he  had  re- 
jected it;  she  had  no  right  to  it.  Still,  she  hesi- 
tated— and  was  lost.  Mrs.  Cathewe  came  in, 
ready  for  the  ride. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MANSFIELD  had  an  odd  experience — for 
him — that  afternoon.  A  representative 
of  the  local  merchants  had  called  to  ask 
him  to  release  them  from  their  promise  regarding 
the  boycott  of  the  Herald. 

The  representative  sat  on  the  extreme  edge  of 
his  chair  and  twirled  his  derby  as  he  talked.  He 
was  distinctly  ill  at  ease.  Not  particularly  happy 
over  the  character  of  his  office:  he  saw  into  the 
future,  himself  broken  and  ruined  for  having  dared 
beard  this  colossus  in  his  den. 

Mansfield's  handsome  face,  however,  offered  no 
indication  of  the  chagrin  that  was  consuming  him. 
Here  was  a  real  defeat,  a  sinister  one;  and  stormy 
words  and  reproaches  would  not  serve  to  turn  back 
the  tide.  He  saw  the  grim  walls  of  his  fortress 
disintegrate  before  his  eyes,  as  it  were.  For  all 
the  bitterness  in  his  heart,  he  felt  the  inclination  to 
laugh.  Out  of  a  callous  jest,  this  buffet!  Had 
not  he  himself  sent  Cathewe  to  Bannister? 

"We  are  sorry,  Mr.  Mansfield,  but  we  can't 
carry  this  on  any  longer.  We  don't  want  to  offend 
you  or  lose  the  trade  of  the  thousands  you  employ, 

113 


114         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

but  we  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  far  more  profitable  for  us  to  cater  to  the  other 
seventy  odd  thousand  and  let  your  people  go. 
The  local  trade  has  fallen  off  to  such  an  extent 
that  it  will  soon  force  some  of  us  to  the  wall. 
Somehow  this  young  fellow  has  got  hold  of  the 
public  mind.  Folks  hereabouts  are  convinced 
that  he  isn't  getting  a  square  deal,  and  they  are 
telling  us  so  plainly  by  turning  their  trade  toward 
the  mail-order  houses.  We  don't  want  to  offend 
you,  but  on  the  other  hand,  neither  do  we  wish  to 
go  broke.  What  answer  shall  I  carry  back?  " 

"That  they  are  under  no  further  obligations," 
answered  Mansfield  quietly. 

"Our  thanks,  Mr.  Mansfield.  We  shall  renew 
our  contracts  with  the  Herald  at  once." 

As  he  went  out,  he  passed  Doctor  Maddox 
coming  in. 

"Well,  Dunleigh,  what's  the  trouble?"  asked 
Maddox,  setting  his  battered  case  on  the  floor 
beside  his  chair.  "  Tobacco  heart  ?  " 

"No,  John.  I  sent  for  you  because  I  wish  to 
ask  an  honest  man  a  few  simple  questions." 

"As  a  patient  or  as  a  friend?  " 

"Hanged  if  I  know!" — whimsically.  "But 
have  I  any  friends?  " 

Maddox  sat  back  abruptly.  "Do  you  need 
any?  "  he  countered. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        115 

"I'm  beginning  to  wonder." 

"Well,  I've  always  had  a  sneaking  regard  for 
you." 

"Based  upon  what?" 

"You  never  were  afraid  of  anything  or  anybody. 
I  like  courage." 

"Even  when  it's  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  trench? 
John,  I'd  like  to  know  for  one  thing  what  you 
honestly  think  of  Dunleigh  Mansfield." 

Maddox,  plainly  distressed,  pulled  his  beard. 
"  What's  happened  to  you?  " 

"An  inconceivable  thing.  I've  fallen  in  love 
with  something." 

"What?" 

"My  daughter." 

"Nothing  abnormal  about  that.  But  I  begin 
to  see.  You've  been  looking  over  your  shoulder, 
I  suspect." 

"  Exactly  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"Tell  me  what  you  want  to,  and  I'll  answer  as 
an  honest  friend." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  this  fellow  Brandon 
Cathewe?" 

"Oh."  The  doctor  was  patently  disappointed. 
"I  know  him  to  be  as  clean  and  white  as  a  hound's 
tooth." 

"His  past?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  that,  and  little  I  care.     It's 


116         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

what  he  is  that  counts  with  me.  Dunleigh,  I'm 
glad  you've  fallen  in  love  with  Betty.  It's  bound 
to  change  your  point  of  view.  You've  made 
Bannister  prosperous,  but  on  a  rotten  foundation. 
You've  been  hard  and  cruel.  Remember,  you 
asked  for  this.  You've  done  mean  things,  too. 
I'll  never  forget  the  end  of  that  poor  inventor. 
Oh,  yes,  it  was  good  business;  but  you  did  not 
need  those  extra  thousands.  You  have  set  out  to 
break  Cathewe  because  he  is  the  first  man  who 
ever  dared  oppose  you  openly.  And  I  don't 
believe  you  will  succeed." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  represents  Right  and  you  represent 
Might.  It  is  Germany  against  the  world  in 
miniature.  So  long  as  you  gain  your  ends,  what 
do  you  care  about  the  ruin  you  leave  in  your  wake? 
I  understand  you.  It  is  a  kind  of  game  with  you. 
Any  kind  of  an  obstacle  is  intolerable  to  you." 

"That's  plain  speaking,  John." 

"You  asked  for  it.  And  there's  another  thing 
I  can't  forget.  Your  wife.  Oh,  she  had  every- 
thing. But  you  crushed  her  under  your  lust  for 
power.  She  married  you  (because  she  loved  you; 
and  you  saw  only  her  physical  perfections.  She 
was  one  of  your  pawns.  Bitter?  Well,  so  I  am. 
I've  stumbled  across  your  trail  so  many  times,  and 
always  I  saw  the  iron  heel.  Has  this  frightful  war 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         117 

touched  you,  I  wonder?  Is  it  anything  more  to 
you  than  a  new  way  of  adding  to  your  treasure? 
On  the  other  hand,  I've  always  held  that  there 
was  a  soul  in  you  somewhere,  if  something  could 
crack  the  gold  encasement.  If  you  have  fallen  in 
love  with  Betty,  then  you  are  on  the  way.  You 
could  not  possibly  love  that  child — I  brought  her 
into  this  world,  Dunleigh — and  do  anything  mean. 
Get  your  house  in  order.  Call  in  this  boy  and 
ask  him  what  he  wants — and  give  it  to  him.  It 
isn't  you;  there's  nothing  personal.  It's  merely 
he's  a  kind  of  Sir  Galahad.  He  has  set  forth  to 
right  wrongs  where  he  finds  them.  I  don't  know 
what  brought  him  to  Bannister  originally.  But  he's 
found  a  man's  job  here,  and  tackled  it  properly." 

"All  this  is  quite  complimentary  to  me,"  said 
Mansfield,  dryly.  "Then  you  advise  me  to  throw 
up  my  hands  and  cry  Kamerad?  John,  my 
position  is  impregnable." 

"On  the  money  side,  yes.  Man,  there's  a 
great  thing  under  your  hand.  Make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  to  that  girl.  Lord,  Lord,  how  she  will 
love  you  then!  But  if  you  deceive  her  and  she 
finds  it  out,  you  will  lose  her." 

Mansfield  drew  his  palm  across  his  forehead. 
"First,  I've  got  to  find  out  where  Cathewe  got 
his  four  hundred  thousand.  Did  you  know  that 
he  had  that  amount  in  the  local  banks?" 


118         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"No."  But  the  doctor  did  not  exhibit  any 
surprise. 

"  Do  you  accept  him  in  your  house  as  an  equal?  " 

"Assuredly!" 

"Would  you  consider  him  as  a  son-in-law?" 
pressed  Mansfield. 

Maddox  thought  for  a  moment.     "  Yes." 

"  By  George,  that  fellow  has  hypnotized  you ! " 

"Not  noticeably.  Maybe  you  know  why  he 
came  to  Bannister?" 

"  I  do ! "  shot  back  Mansfield.  "  But  I  can  keep 
a  secret,  too.  Besides,  if  I  told  you,  you  would 
say  I  was  spoofing  you,  as  the  English  say.  No 
man  in  his  right  mind.  .  .  .  Well,  no  matter," 
broke  off  Mansfield  impatiently.  "I  thought  you 
might  throw  a  little  light  on  his  past." 

"What  would  you  call  a  past?  " 

"  Something  off-colour." 

"Then  you  may  rest  easy.  That  boy  never 
did  or  thought  anything  off-colour.  He  couldn't. 
And  he's  no  milksop,  as  you  know.  Were  you 
enemies  before  he  came  here?" 

"I  had  forgotten  his  very  existence.  So  you 
have  written  down  your  boyhood  friend  as  a 
rogue!" 

"I  won't  answer  that.  I'll  abide  by  what  you 
have  written  down  yourself, " — shrewdly. 

Mansfield  laughed.     "I'll  travel  on  my  own. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        119 

But  you  won't  find  anything  you'd  call  mean  in 
the  deal.  I  can  promise  you  that.  But  I  shall 
fight  Cathewe  with  all  I  have  and  all  I  am.  I 
can  promise  you  that  also.  One  of  us  must 
break." 

"I'm  on  the  boy's  side,  Dunleigh,"  replied 
Maddox,  getting  up. 

"I  suspected  you  would  be.  But  let  us  under- 
stand each  other  on  one  point.  Nothing  we  do 
must  come  between  my  Betty  and  your  Nancy." 

"I  agree  to  that.  Nothing  could  come  between 
those  two."  Maddox  glanced  at  his  watch  pro- 
fessionally. "Shall  I  put  this  on  the  monthly 
bill?  You  wanted  my  advice." 

"I've  always  been  fond  of  you,  John." 

"I'll  wait  until  I  see  what's  going  to  happen  to 
that  white  corner  in  your  soul  before  I  express  my 
sentiments.  But  I'll  repeat  my  advice:  Call  up 
Cathewe;  give  him  what  he  wants.  Give  me 
what  I  want.  Give  Betty  what  she  wants. 
Give.  That's  the  whole  trouble  with  you,  Dun- 
leigh. You've  never  given  anything  but  money. 
Well,  if  you're  any  worse  by  night,  call  me  in," 
and  Maddox  picked  up  his  bag  and  marched  out 
into  the  hall. 

That  night  as  he  sat  before  the  fire  hi  the  li- 
brary— his  office  hours  over — his  pipe  going  com- 
fortably, Nancy  walked  over  and  sat  down  in 


120         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

his  lap,  took  the  pipe  from  his  teeth,  and  laid  it  on 
the  ashtray.  Then  she  seized  his  ears  and  drew 
his  head  right  about  face. 

"Father  Maddox,  who  is  Digby  Hallowell?" 
His  start  nearly  upset  her.     "Where  did  you 
hear  that  name?" 
"From  you." 

"From  me?  But  that's  impossible!" 
"Don't  you  know  that  you  have  lately  acquired 
the  habit  of  muttering  out  loud  when  you  are 
overtired?  Half  a  dozen  times  I  have  heard  you 
mutter  that  name  as  if  it  were  some  tremendous 
thing." 

"Nancy,"  he  said,  gravely, "you  will  do  father  a 
great  favour  if  you  will  forget  you  ever  heard  me 
utter  it.  I  feel,  by  uttering  that  name  aloud,  even 
unconsciously,  that  I  have  broken  my  faith  as  a 
physician." 


CHAPTER  XH 

CATHEWE  saw  Betty  frequently.     Some- 
times she  was  on  horseback;  sometimes 
he  saw  her  entering  or  leaving  a  fashion- 
able shop;  sometimes  she  was  in  her  limousine. 
And  he  saw  her  in  the  written  page,  between  the 
covers  of  books,  in  the  dark  corners,  in  the  fire, 
in  the  smoke  from  his  pipe.     He  could  avoid  her 
actually,   but  not  spiritually.     She  persisted  in 
entering  every  dream  he  had. 

All  this  started  an  unending,  philosophical 
musing.  Human  beings  could  do  such  things — 
fall  in  love  with  a  face  and  then  permit  it  to  haunt 
one!  Even  if  he  hadn't  been  fighting  her  father, 
the  situation  would  have  been  quite  as  hopeless 
and  impossible.  She  would  one  day  be  a  very 
rich  woman;  and  he  would  never  be  anything 
but  a  scribbler.  On  the  other  hand,  the  little 
odds  and  ends  he  had  gathered  relative  to  her 
character  rather  convinced  him  that  she  was  demo- 
cratic, that  lack  of  money  could  not  constitute 
a  barrier  on  the  way  to  her  heart. 

It  did  not  matter  that  he  had  been  born  and 
educated  in  Europe;  there  was  a  characteristic 

121 


The  Man  With  Three  Names 

in  him  essentially  American:  he  could  not  possi- 
bly live  upon  his  wife's  bounty,  after  the  accepted 
custom  of  the  Latin  and  Teutonic  male.  To  his 
mind,  that  was  degradation.  This  had  not  been 
instilled  into  his  mind;  it  had  been  born  there,  it 
was  instinctive,  it  was  Anglo-Saxon.  If  ever  he 
married,  his  wife  must  lean  upon  him;  the  rewards 
of  his  labour  should  be  the  financial  prop. 

Yet  it  was  pleasant  indeed  to  dream  what 
might  have  been.  For  this  was  the  one  woman; 
nothing  could  shut  out  this  fact.  He  had  moody 
spells,  but  these  waxed  and  waned  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning,  during  the  twenty-minute 
walk  from  the  office  to  his  home. 

All  this  set  its  mark  upon  him,  influenced  him 
subconsciously,  and  almost  ran  him  upon  the 
rocks.  To  make  a  fortune  himself,  legitimately , 
to  write  a  tremendously  popular  novel  or  play. 
Betty  never  could  be  his;  but  he  became  fired  with 
the  natural  ambition  to  reach  a  financial  level 
somewhere  near  hers. 

When  the  advertising  men  of  the  various  shops 
penitently  entered  the  business  office  of  the 
Herald  the  next  morning,  asking  to  renew  their 
contracts,  the  business  manager  called  up  Cathewe, 
who  had  an  extension  telephone  at  the  side  of  his 
bed.  Drowsily  Cathewe  caught  the  first  few 
words,  then  he  became  wide  awake. 


*'  Cathewe  saw  Betty  frequently.  Sometimes  he  saw  her 
entering  or  leaving  a  fashionable  shop:  sometimes  she  was 
in  her  limousine  .  .  .  She  persisted  in  entering  every 
dream  lie  had.' 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        123 

"All  of  them?" 

"Yes,  sir.  They  want  their  spaces  back  to- 
morrow." 

"The  old  contracts  are  dead." 

"I've  got  new  ones  all  ready,  with  the  cash 
line  blank.  Do  you  want  to  come  down,  or  shall 
I  handle  it?" 

"I'll  leave  it  to  you.  But  listen  carefully: 
the  Herald  has  gained  twenty  thousand  since  those 
chaps  deserted  us.  Add  twenty  per  cent,  to  the 
old  scale." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  soak  them  with  the 
January  renewal?" 

"You  don't  understand  the  big  thing  that's  hap- 
pened. Those  fellows  are  not  in  the  office  because 
they  are  sorry  for  us.  They  are  up  against  a  wall, 
and  we're  the  only  way  out.  Twenty  per  cent,  and 
a  year's  run.  When  a  man  offers  you  a  Corona, 
you  don't  ask  for  a  stogie.  Those  are  the  terms. 
They  can  take  them  or  leave  them.  Call  me  up 
when  they  go."  Cathewe  propped  himself  with 
his  pillows  and  stared  at  the  telephone  for  a  full  half 
hour;  and  when  the  telephone  finally  rang  again,  the 
hair  on  his  forehead  was  damp.  "Well?"  he  said. 

"Not  a  whimper.  One  year,  with  a  twenty 
per  cent,  raise,  and  they  seemed  glad  to  sign.  In 
a  couple  of  months — if  the  print-paper  holds  out — 
we'll  be  carrying  money  to  the  banks." 


124         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"I'll  be  with  you  at  four." 

Cathewe  set  the  telephone  down  with  a  bang, 
kicked  the  bedclothes  high  into  the  air,  turned  a 
somersault  and  landed  with  a  thud  on  the  floor. 
He  picked  himself  up,  laughing,  flung  his  bathrobe 
across  his  shoulders,  and  dashed  down  the  hall 
to  the  bathroom.  It  was  only  half  after  nine, 
but  that  did  not  matter. 

His  mother  heard  the  racket  and  called  upstairs : 
"Sonny?" 

"Ye-ah!" 

"What  has  happened!" 

"The millennium!  .  .  .  Ha-a-a!" — as  the  cold 
water  from  the  shower  struck  his  muscular  shoul- 
ders. 

She  listened  for  a  few  minutes,  heard  a  dozen 
"has"  and  "hos"  and  "brrrs,"  laughed  softly,  and 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  prepare  the  madman's 
breakfast.  He  was  tremendously  elated  over 
something.  He  took  his  blows  quietly;  but  when 
he  was  happy  he  had  to  dance,  go  joy-berserker, 
as  he  called  it. 

"I've  won,  mother,"  he  said,  as  he  came  storm- 
ing into  the  dining  room,  his  eyes  glistening  and 
his  fine  skin  ruddy.  "God  bless  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,  with  its  love  of  fair  play!  That's  what  did 
it.  And  the  war  had  something  to  do  with  it,  too. 
This  war  is  really  making  us  think  and  act.  Four 


The  Man  With  Three  Names 

or  five  years  ago  the  dear  people  would  have  let 
me  go  to  the  wall  without  a  flutter.  Now  they 
come  out  and  drive  the  advertisers  back.  It  has 
taken  me  nearly  three  years  to  drive  home  a 
single  fact — that  I  am  honest.  Think  of  it !  The 
most  puzzling,  tantalizing,  quicksilvery  thing  on 
earth — the  public — went  out  and  won  this  fight 
for  me  because  they  saw  I  was  playing  fair!  We 
can  let  out  a  few  reefs  in  our  sails  from  now  on. 
God  bless  'em!  And  yet!" — sobering. 

"Well,  and  yet?" 

"I  couldn't  have  held  out  but  for 

"Sonny,  we've  threshed  that  out  long  ago. 
The  means  to  a  noble  end.  Dismiss  any  doubt. 
God  understands.  He  knows  what  is  in  your 
heart.  My  boy! — to  bring  a  people  into  a 
promised  land,  or  as  near  to  it  as  it  is  humanly 
possible  to  bring  them!" 

"Queer  sheep  that  they  are,  they  would  turn 
against  me  to-morrow,  if  they  knew!  Mother, 
I'm  being  watched.  I  can't  prove  it,  but  I  sense 
it  continually.  I  ought  to  make  my  trip  to  New 
York,  but  I  don't  dare.  Mansfield  has  just 
received  a  bitter  blow  to  his  prestige.  He's  not 
going  to  leave  any  stone  unturned  to  do  me  injury. 
But,  oh,  lady,  in  a  little  while  I'll  not  have  to  touch  a 
dollar  that  isn't  ours — think  of  it!  Not  a  picture 
on  the  wall,  not  a  chair,  not  a  nail  in  the  house 


126         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

that  is  not  honestly  ours.  Your  little  nest-egg 
made  it  possible.  What  a  glorious  woman  you 
are!  And  all  our  dreams  coming  true!" 

"'To  thine  ownself  be  true,  and  it  must  follow 
as  night  the  day.  .  .  ." 

But  he  smothered  the  rest  of  the  quotation  with 
a  kiss.  "And  now  for  another  battle.  I'm  going 
after  that  munitions  plant.  I'm  going  to  force 
him  to  fix  that  water  supply.  There  is  something 
sinister  in  the  way  the  Federal  inspectors  ignore 
that  water  system.  I  dare  not  accuse  any  one  of 
taking  bribes;  but  there  seems  to  be  a  big  cloud  of 
dust  out  there  whenever  the  inspector  shows  up. 
If  a  fire  got  loose  out  there.,  that  part  of  the  town 
would  be  blown  off  the  map,  many  killed,  and 
hundreds  made  homeless.  So  I'm  going  to  get 
busy.  And  now,  by  cracky,  I'm  going  to  pile  into 
that  book!  I  haven't  felt  so  like  work  in  a  month 
of  moons." 

He  ate  his  breakfast  hurriedly,  then  bolted  into 
the  study.  For  a  little  while  she  could  hear  him 
humming  some  bars  from  the  Second  Polonaise; 
then  silence.  Thereafter  she  and  the  maid  moved 
about  their  work  without  sound. 

He  wrote  steadily  until  three;  then  he  went  to 
the  office  to  consult  with  the  business  manager, 
who  still  exhibited  an  hysterical  condition  of  the 
mind. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         127 

"Not  one  of  'em  kicked  at  the  new  rate.  They 
seemed  tickled  to  death  for  the  privilege  of  paying 
it.  But  our  old  friend  will  be  sailing  some  kind 
of  a  bomb  into  camp  before  long.  He  isn't  the  kind 
to  lie  down  after  a  jolt  like  this.  What  pleases  me 
is  the  fact  that  we  didn't  do  the  job;  our  sub- 
scribers did  it.  Huh?  Think  of  that,  when  you 
write  the  history  of  the  town  of  Bannister.  And 
yet  they'd  bolt  the  other  way  if  the  right  thing 
turned  up." 

"The  right  thing  for  Mansfield.  What  would 
that  be?"  asked  Cathewe. 

"Search  me.  But  let  him  throw  his  bomb. 
We're  the  best  little  ol'  ball-players  on  the  circuit. 
Say,  I'll  want  half  your  editorial  page." 

"Welcome." 

"  Going  to  make  any  comment  editorially?  " 

"Not  a  line.  I  didn't  do  this,  it  was  the 
mighty  fine  lot  of  folks  who  inhabit  this  town." 

"Well,  you  started  'em  thinking,  anyhow. 
You  had  the  grit  to  hang  on." 

"Grit?  You  wouldn't  call  it  that,  would  you, 
you  being  the  one  man  in  this  office  who  is  aware 
of  the  resources  of  the  paper?" 

"Well" — rather  weakly — "it  takes  grit  to  lose 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  and  not  throw  bricks. 
You  can't  get  away  from  the  fact,  chief,  that 
you've  given  this  burg  a  real  newspaper  for  he- 


128         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

men.  Folks  know  it,  and  that's  why  the  ads  have 
come  ki-ooting  back.  Of  course,  you've  had  to 
take  me  into  your  confidence  to  a  certain  extent, 
but  I'm  an  oyster.  You're  right.  If  folks  knew 
the  backing  you've  got,  they  might  set  up  the 
yell  of  Wolf.  You  never  can  tell.  But  once  we 
get  going  past  these  bumps,  you'll  be  able  to  come 
out  into  the  open .  Sheep . ' ' 

"My  opinion,"  Cathewe  agreed,  starting  for  the 
editorial  stairs. 

The  keen-eyed  business  manager  stared  at 
Cathewe's  back  until  it  vanished  beyond  the 
landing. 

"My  middle  name  is  Obfuscated,  sure  pop. 
What  the  dickens  is  his  game,  anyhow?  All 
that  cash  in  the  bank,  and  never  a  copper  for  him- 
self? Oh,  well;  I  should  worry  about  George  W. 
Future";  and  he  applied  himself  to  the  advertising 
diagram  for  the  next  day's  paper. 

Cathewe  left  the  office  at  five  o'clock.  It  was 
growing  dark.  He  always  walked  home,  even  in 
bad  weather. 

Bannister  was  like  all  American  cities  of  its 
kind — spotted,  you  might  say.  Oases  of  fine 
homes  set  in  the  middle  of  riff-raff  dwellings; 
three  or  four  nice  streets,  then  three  or  four  shabby 
ones.  Polygon  Hill,  of  course,  stood  aloof  from 
the  town  proper.  The  aristocracy  lived  there 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        129 

and  took  good  care  that  cheap  residences  did  not 
encroach. 

Cathewe  had  to  cross  one  of  these  shabby 
sections  on  his  way  home.  He  always  walked 
swiftly,  rarely  observant  of  outward  things.  He 
walked  because  he  found  this  character  of  action 
provocative  of  clear  thinking.  His  mind  was  full 
of  his  story,  and  he  was  eager  to  get  at  it  again 
an  hour  or  so  before  he  returned  to  the  office. 
Most  people,  who  think  as  they  walk,  do  so  with 
heads  tilted  forward.  Cathewe  walked  with  his 
chin  up — the  swinging  gait  of  a  man  who  could 
see  his  objective. 

It  was  dark,  but  still  a  little  too  early  for  the 
street  lamps.  The  darkness  was  partly  due  to  the 
heavy  rainclouds  that  were  sweeping  across  the 
sky.  Obliquely  he  saw  two  men  across  the  street 
apparently  talking  to  a  woman.  What  made  him 
turn  his  head  and  look  squarely  he  never  knew. 
Ordinarily,  he  would  have  continued  on.  This 
single  look  was  enough.  He  broke  into  a  run. 
When  he  arrived  he  did  not  ask  questions.  He 
knocked  one  of  the  men  flat  and  whirled  the  other 
into  the  gutter. 

"Can  I  be  of  assistance?"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  woman.  Then  he  saw  who  it  was.  "Miss 
Mansfield?  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing 
alone  in  this  quarter  of  the  town?  Here,  take  my 


130         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

arm."  He  did  not  wait  for  her  to  offer  it  but  in- 
stantly tucked  it  through  his  arm  and  marched  up 
the  street,  never  turning  his  head  to  see  what  the 
rowdies  were  doing.  "My  home  is  only  a  few 
blocks  away.  I'll  call  a  taxi  and  you  can  have  a 
cup  of  tea  while  you  wait." 

"If  you  please!  I  ...  I'm  rather  upset. 
One  of  them  touched  me."  Cathewe  stopped. 
"No,  no!  Please  do  not  go  back.  My  chauffeur 
must  have  misunderstood  my  directions,  for  I  left 
him  by  the  curb  here." 

"I'm  glad  I  happened  along." 

"So  am  I." 

And  they  started  on  again.  She  became  a  little 
breathless  trying  to  measure  her  stride  with  his. 
How  strong  and  muscular  his  arm  was!  The 
suddenness  of  his  appearance  and  the  ruthless 
manner  in  which  he  had  knocked  those  ruffians 
about!  His  home:  she  found  herself  curiously 
excited  at  the  thought  of  seeing  his  home.  The 
lamps  were  now  popping  up  along  the  street,  and 
shyly  she  stole  a  glance  at  him.  To-day  he  was 
dressed  like  any  other  city  man;  perhaps  a  little 
more  tastefully  than  the  general  run.  How  oddly 
he  held  his  head,  as  if  he  were  looking  over  the 
tops  of  things.  Well,  to-night  she  would  learn 
who  he  was. 

She  had  been  oddly  intrigued  by  the  thought  of 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         131 

him  since  that  adventure  on  the  hilltop.  Why? 
Because  he  read  Fabre  in  the  original  and  hadn't 
offered  to  shake  hands?  He  was  a  type  the  like 
of  which  she  had  never  met  before;  that  was 
probably  the  reason  for  the  sustained  interest  in 
him.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  was  only  reaching 
about  a  little  blindly  for  some  amusement  which 
would  .make  her  forget  the  hurt  in  her  heart. 

The  click  of  his  heels  on  the  sidewalk  roused 
Cathewe  to  the  fact  that  presently  she  might 
wonder  at  his  silence. 

"How  is  Sandy?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  And  how  is  Messer 
the  Ant?'* 

"Haven't  disturbed  him  since  that  day.  I 
suppose  you  were  on  a  charity  visit.  Never  visit 
those  quarters  without  at  least  your  dog." 

"I  was  never  spoken  to  or  annoyed  before.  I 
did  stay  a  little  longer  than  usual." 

He  became  tongue-tied  again.  Perhaps  he 
should  have  taken  her  into  the  nearest  drugstore 
and  called  the  taxi  from  there.  Home,  she  would 
be  sure  to  learn  that  the  editor  of  the  Herald  and 
Brandon  Cathewe  were  one  and  the  same. 

"I  say,  it  might  expedite  things  if  I  called  the 
taxi  from  the  drugstore  there." 

"  But  there  wouldn't  be  any  tea  there ! "  She  was 
determined  to  see  how  this  unusual  young  man  lived. 


132         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

It  struck  him  with  the  bang  of  thunder  that 
she  might  be  playing  with  him.  But  the  idea  no 
sooner  took  lodgment  in  his  mind  than  he  dis- 
missed it  as  utterly  absurd.  She  wasn't  that 
kind. 

The  meeting  had  been  fortunate  in  one  respect : 
he  had  rescued  her  from  a  disagreeable  encounter. 
But  it  wrote  misfortune  for  him.  It  was  inevit- 
able that  to-morrow  she  would  know  the  truth, 
that  the  man  at  her  side  was  he  who  had  recently 
pilloried  her  father,  held  him  up  to  scorn.  Auto- 
matically he  lengthened  his  stride. 

"Do  I  have  to  run  the  rest  of  the  way?"  she 
panted. 

"I  beg  your  pardon! "  he  cried,  slowing  down. 

"  There,  that's  better."    She  laughed. 

"My  boots  are  seven-leaguers." 

"I  always  walk  rapidly  when  I'm  thinking 
rapidly." 

This  comment  gave  him  extra  food  for  thought. 
"Perhaps  I  had  the  tea-kettle  in  mind." 

"A  whistling  tea-kettle — what  cheery  things 
they  are!" 

"How  many  lumps  of  sugar?"  — whimsically. 

"Two." 

"  Cream  or  lemon?  " 

"Lemon." 

"If  you  won't  mind  ordinary  grocery  tea,  and  a 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        133 

little  white  clapboard  house  with  a  picket  fence  in 
front." 

"I  shall  be  very  grateful  for  a  chair  and  a  cup  of 
tea." 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said,  swinging  the  gate. 

She  passed  him,  leaving  a  vague  perfume. 
There  was  no  coherent  thought  in  his  head  beyond 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  still  thrilling  from  the 
recent  touch  of  her  arm  against  his.  He  opened 
the  door  for  her  and  she  stepped  into  the  dark  hall. 

"'Sh!"  she  whispered. 

And  quite  unconsciously  her  hand  found  his 
arm  and  rested  rather  tensely  there.  Music,  from 
the  darkened  room  beyond,  glorious  music!  A 
strange  silence  followed.  Then  the  music  began 
again — the  Arab  Dance  by  Grieg.  The  player, 
however,  did  not  finish  it. 

"Is  that  you, Sonny? " 

What  a  pleasant  voice!  thought  the  girl,  her 
astonishment  at  full  tide. 

"Yes,  mother.  Will  you  ring  for  lights  and 
tea?  I  have  company — Miss  Mansfield,  whose 
chauffeur  misunderstood  her  instructions." 

The  girl  heard  a  flurry  of  skirts  in  the  room  be- 
yond, the  tinkle  of  a  bell,  and  then  in  a  kind  of 
dream  Betty  entered  the  living  room. 

"  Can  you  see  the  lounge?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 


134         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Almost  at  once  the  maid  came  in  with  a  Roman 
candelabrum,  which  she  placed  on  the  piano. 

"You'll  excuse  me  a  moment,"  said  Cathewe, 
"  while  I  call  the  taxi " ;  and  he  stepped  into  the  hall. 

"How  beautifully  you  play!"  said  Betty.  But 
her  thought  was:  "How  beautiful  you  are!"  His 
mother. 

Oh,  certainly  there  was  a  real  mystery  here. 
Her  glance  swept  the  room,  which  was  small. 
Treasures  everywhere,  and  taste. 

"Would  you  like  to  hear  something  more?" 
asked  the  white-haired  woman  standing  by  the 
piano.  So  this  was  the  girl! — here,  in  this  house! 
Lovely;  Sonny  was  right. 

"Oh,  if  you  would  be  so  good ! " 

"Do  you  like  brilliant  music?  " 

"I  like  anything  that  is  music." 

So  Mrs.  Cathewe  sat  down  again  and  played 
Grieg's  Papillon — played  it  without  taking  her 
gaze  off  this  flower-like  young  woman;  and  Betty 
felt  powerless  to  shift  her  eyes.  She  had  entered 
an  enchanted  castle,  and  the  mystic  inhabitants 
had  laid  a  spell  upon  her.  Brahms,  Moszkowski, 
Rubenstein,  Tschaikowsky,  Scharwenka;  the  melo- 
dies seemed  to  rush  and  whirl  about  her,  caress, 
confuse,  startle,  soothe.  She  was  indeed  under  a 
spell;  for  the  effect  of  fine  music  upon  certain 
emotional  souls  is  hypnotic.  Betty  had  heard 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        135 

nearly  all  the  great  pianists  in  Europe;  it  had 
been  a  part  of  her  education;  but  to  be  played  to 
directly,  in  this  amazing  fashion,  left  her  with  but 
two  senses — seeing  and  hearing.  She  was  not 
conscious  of  moving.  Did  she  drink  a  cup  of  tea? 
She  could  not  remember.  She  recollected  nothing 
until  the  door  of  the  taxicab  slammed  behind  her. 
Then  normality  returned  with  a  rush.  For  the 
second  time  that  young  man  had  avoided  giving 
his  name.  What  in  the  world  could  be  the 
meaning  of  it? 

The  cab  had  not  gone  a  dozen  yards  when  she 
rapped  on  the  window. 

"Stop!"  she  ordered.  "Do  you  know  the 
name  of  those  people?  " 

"No,  Miss,"  the  driver  lied  blandly. 

Betty  peered  from  the  side  window,  and 
received  a  distinct  shock.  Why,  this  Ali  Baba's 
cave  was  almost  opposite  Nancy's!  Nancy  knew 
them;  she  must  know  them.  She  must  have 
known  that  September  day.  It  wasn't  possible 
that  Nancy  had  not  come  into  contact  with  that 
young  man  and  his  mother.  It  was  plain  that 
Nancy  had  not  told  the  truth.  Why? 

She  became  determined  to  solve  this  riddle. 
There  wasn't  any  sense  to  it.  The  moment  she 
arrived  home  she  was  astonished  to  note  that  it 
was  seven.  She  had  been  in  that  quaint  house  al- 


136         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

most  two  hours.  She  ran  to  the  telephone  and 
called  a  number. 

**  Dr.  Maddox,  please."  She  had  to  waita  minute. 

"Hello!" 

"This  is  Betty  Mansfield,  Doctor." 

"Your  father  ill?" 

"No.  Nobody's  ill.  I've  a  question  to  ask. 
Who  lives  in  that  little  white  house  across  the 
street  from  you — the  house  with  the  picket  fence?  " 

"Why?" 

"I  want  to  know." 

"There  are  four  or  five  white  houses  across  the 
street." 

"Thanks!"  With  an  indignant  gesture  she  set 
the  receiver  on  the  hook. 

But  all  through  the  evening  she  wondered  why 
she  had  not  pressed  the  question,  what  freakish 
impulse  had  compelled  her  to  ring  off  in  that 
childish  manner.  Was  there  an  undercurrent  of 
fear?  Fear  of  what? — that,  once  the  truth  was 
hers,  the  white  door  would  be  closed  to  her  forever? 
A  mystery  which  nobody  wanted  her  to  solve. 
She  reached  in  all  directions,  but  there  was  no 
connecting  link. 

Cathewe  usually  remained  at  his  desk  until  the 
paper  was  ready  for  the  press,  which  was  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  But  to-night  at 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        137 

twelve  he  turned  the  office  over  to  the  night- 
editor.  He  wanted  to  get  out  of  doors,  walk. 
His  head  was  full  of  the  girl.  He  could  not  dis- 
miss the  vivid  picture  of  her.  Whichever  way  he 
looked  he  saw  her  sitting  tense  upon  the  lounge, 
against  a  background  of  Rembrandt  tones,  her 
beautiful  face  wonder-lit.  He  knew  what  had 
happened  to  her,  for  often  it  had  happened  to  him. 
His  mother's  playing  had  hypnotized  her.  But 
he  knew  what  the  girl  would  never  know:  that  his 
mother  had  deliberately  set  out  to  sweep  Betty 
off  her  feet,  to  create  a  fascination  which  would 
survive  the  hour.  And  the  subsequent,  ab- 
stracted manner  of  the  girl  convinced  him  that 
his  mother  had  succeeded  only  too  well. 

"Why  did  you  play  like  that?"  he  had  asked 
after  Betty's  departure. 

"For  your  sake." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes.  I  want  her  to  remember  me  as  against 
the  day  when  she  learns  who  you  are,  Sonny.  She 
has  a  soul  like  a  harp.  I  can  see  that.  When  the 
evil  hour  comes — as  it  must — she  will  not  be  able 
to  condemn  you  utterly.  It  is  a  muddle,  isn't  it, 
Sonny?  But  God  will  clear  it  up  for  us." 

Cathewe's  long  stride  carried  him  to  his  own 
gate.  He  was  in  the  act  of  opening  it  when  a 
pistol  shot  cut  through  the  silence  sharply. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

CATHEWE  broke  into  a  run  toward  the 
rear  of  the  house.  His  reasoning  was 
sound.  He  saw  a  man  dash  from  the 
kitchen  and  make  for  the  back  fence.  There  was 
no  way  of  cutting  him  off,  but  there  was  a  chance 
of  putting  a  hand  on  him  before  he  could  scale  the 
high  board  fence.  Cathewe  touched  the  man's 
coattail,  but  futilely.  Recognizing  the  useless- 
ness  of  pursuit,  he  swung  around  and  ran  back  to 
the  house,  entering  through  the  kitchen  door. 

"Mother?"  he  called,  thundering  through  the 
kitchen  into  the  dining  room.  "Mother?" 

"Yes,  Sonny!  I'm  all  right,"  came  from  his 
study. 

He  found  her  in  his  chair,  the  light  on.  She  was 
pale  but  calm.  He  caught  her  head  in  his  hands 
and  kissed  her.  And  she  smiled. 

"I  fired  only  to  frighten  him.  He  was  rifling 
your  safe.  He  made  no  effort  to  touch  me.  Was 
there  anything  of  value  there?  " 

"Only  odds  and  ends  of  manuscripts  and  my 
dramatic  contracts.  This  is  Mansfield.  That 
money  in  the  bank  is  bothering  him.  He  begins 

138 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         139 

to  feel  that  he  must  find  out.  But  I  must  go  to 
New  York  to-morrow  night,  even  if  I'm  followed. 
I  dare  not  delay  my  going  any  longer." 

"You  are  going  through  with  it?  " 

"Yes." 

"In  spite  of  the  girl?" 

"In  spite  of  her.  Don't  worry  about  me, 
mother.  I've  got  to  forget  that  I'm  human.  I 
have  dedicated  my  life  to  a  cause.  There's  no 
escape  now.  What  a  marvel  you  are,  though! 
Most  women  would  have  screamed  and  fainted." 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,  Sonny.  Shall  I  get 
you  something  to  eat?  There  is  coffee  on  the  back 
of  the  range.  It  will  be  strong.  Did  you  see  the 
man's  face?" 

"No." 

"I  did.  But  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  have  the 
chance  to  identify  it.  ...  There  goes  the 
bell!" 

"Probably  the  patrolman." 

Cathewe  offered  him  a  cup  of  coffee;  and  the 
three  of  them  sat  around  the  kitchen  table. 

"  Never  kept  money  in  that  safe,  did  you?  " 

"No,"  answered  Cathewe.  "Manuscripts, 
mostly,  and  receipted  household  bills." 

"Uh-huh.  Some  guy  found  you  come  home  at 
three  hi  the  morning.  Took  a  chance.  No  silver 
missing?" 


140         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Mrs.  Cathewe  shook  her  head. 

"Any  good  yegg  could  open  that  safe  without 
'  soup . '  You  got  a  good  look  at  him  ?'  * 

Mrs.  Cathewe  proceeded  to  describe  the  man 
rather  minutely.  The  expression  of  professional 
interest  on  the  patrolman's  face  changed  slowly  to 
one  of  distress. 

"I'd  let  the  matter  drop,"  he  said. 

"Clary,  which  are  you  for?"  Cathewe  de- 
manded. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"Are  you  for  Mansfield  or  for  Bannister? " 

"Bannister,  Mr.  Cathewe.  But  for  all  that,  my 
job  is  my  bread  and  butter.  You're  a  white  man, 
and  this  burg  is  beginning  to  wake  up  to  the  fact. 
What  your  mother's  just  told  me  resembles  a  man 
I  know.  But  if  I  told  you  who,  I  wouldn't  be  able 
to  sell  a  newspaper  on  any  corner  in  town.  You 
know  the  Department  as  well  as  I  do.  You're  up 
against  a  real  war.  You'll  never  get  anything  on 
Mansfield  that'll  hold  water  in  court.  He's  no 
fool.  And  it's  history  in  this  town  that  when  he 
starts  out  to  get  a  man,  he  gets  him.  He'll  get 
you." 

"Not  in  the  sense  you  mean,  Clary.  And  if 
anything  should  happen.  .  .  .  Cathewe 

shut  off  the  words.  What  he  had  been  about  to 
say  might  react  against  him,  should  some  pro- 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        141 

German  blow  up  the  munitions  plant.  "Another 
cup  of  coffee?" 

"  No.  I'll  be  getting  back  to  my  beat,"  said  the 
patrolman,  picking  up  his  night-stick.  "Good 
luck  to  you,  anyhow.  You  want  me  to  report 
this?" 

"Let  it  drop,  since  no  damage  was  done.  Good- 
night." 

At  precisely  this  moment  the  telephone  rang  in 
Mansfield's  library.  Mansfield  laid  aside  his  book. 

"Hello!" 

"This  Mr.  Mansfield?" 

"Yes." 

"There  wasn't  anything." 

Mansfield  hung  up  the  receiver,  but  he  did  not 
reach  for  the  book  he  had  been  reading.  Instead, 
he  stared  into  space. 

Mansfield,  who  rarely  suffered  from  mental 
confusion,  whose  mind  was  generally  a  cold  and 
precise  thinking  machine,  was,  and  had  been  for 
some  days,  in  a  most  peculiar  and  baffling  state. 
He  recognized,  as  it  were,  two  individualities  in 
continuous  combat.  The  art  of  introspection, 
which  had  lain  dormant  all  these  years  for  lack  of 
incentive,  was  becoming  keenly  active.  The  roots 
of  his  cynicism  went  deep;  and  it  was  this  cynicism 
which  constantly  fought  the  ingression  of  senti- 
ment. Cynicism  was  always  striving  to  laugh 


142         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

away  sentimentalism.  Alone  or  among  men, 
cynicism  was  victorious;  but  in  the  presence  of 
Betty's  crystal  honesty  his  cynicism  strove  in  vain 
to  carry  a  bold  face.  The  man  of  action,  of  deeds, 
was  slowly  disintegrating,  giving  way  before  the 
incomprehensible.  A  phenomenon  walked  beside 
him,  but  he  could  not  touch  it. 

It  wasn't  that  Betty  was  twisting  him  around 
her  finger.  That  would  have  been  real  weakness. 
The  phase  which  would  not  permit  of  analysis  was 
this:  in  her  presence  his  sense  of  justice  went  out 
pacifically  to  meet  her  demands.  Later,  alone, 
his  cynicism  would  lash  him  into  a  fury  because  of 
this  easy  surrender  or  that.  But  he  never  went 
to  her  with  the  plea  that  he  had  changed  his  mind. 
He  was  a  sportsman. 

He  had  formed  a  new  habit — that  of  wandering 
about  the  great  shops,  alone,  unnoticed  except  by 
chance;  and  he  was  always  being  drawn  toward 
that  section  which  contained  the  rows  upon  rows 
of  crucibles.  He  liked  to  stand  there,  among  the 
white-hot  and  dazzling  containers,  and  speculate. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  been  poured  into  a  crucible  and 
the  result  was  in  doubt. 

The  truth  is,  he  was  trying  to  fight  his  way 
through  the  gossamer  net  Betty  had  thrown  about 
him.  He  sensed  with  panic  that  the  fibre  which 
had  made  him  a  power  in  the  land  was  softening. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        143 

Fiercely  resolved  to  make  no  further  concession  to 
her  wheedling,  he  would  return  home;  and  then,  if 
Betty  wanted  something,  all  she  had  to  do  was 
rumple  his  hair,  tweak  his  ears,  and  kiss  him.  He 
was  helpless  because  she  never  asked  anything  for 
herself. 

Again,  his  imagination  took  another  turn. 
He  seemed  to  be  walking  in  a  valley  of  echoes. 
"Give  Betty  what  she  wants."  "Give  me  what 
I  want."  "Give  Cathewe  what  he  wants."  "Give." 
Maddox. 

The  thought  of  Cathewe,  however,  always  had 
the  effect  of  a  tonic  upon  a  man  at  low  ebb.  To 
crush  this  meddling  whippersnapper  who  had  caused 
him  the  only  humiliation  he  had  known  in  years, 
crush  and  break  him  and  scatter  him  like  dust. 
Nothing  should  stand  in  the  way  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  this  end.  Cathewe  should  pay 
dearly  for  his  temporary  victories.  Mansfield 
perceived  that  he  was  perfectly  free  and  unham- 
pered as  regarded  this  project.  The  Herald 
and  its  editor  were  never  mentioned  in  the  Mans- 
field menage.  Father  and  daughter  never  came 
into  conflict  upon  this  subject;  for,  by  one  of  those 
curious  twists  of  fate,  they  were  both  working  to- 
ward the  same  end,  though  from  opposite  direc- 
tions and  with  different  motives — the  undoing  of 
Cathewe. 


144         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Another  thing  worthy  of  mention:  Betty  was 
making  him  see  the  war.  It  was  beginning  to  grip 
his  imagination.  It  was  enfiltering  through  the 
layers  of  self-interest  and  indifference.  The  Ger- 
mans weren't  playing  the  game  like  white  men: 
there  was  a  total  lack  of  fair  play.  And  observing 
this  lack  of  another  for  the  first  time,  it  swung 
about  his  point  of  view  subtly.  He  began  to 
wonder  in  a  detached  way  if  in  the  past  he  himself 
had  always  played  fair.  So,  nowadays,  when  he 
wrote  a  check  for  the  Belgian  Relief  or  the  Bed 
Cross,  he  no  longer  meditated  what  people  would 
say  regarding  Dunleigh  Mansfield's  generosity. 

So  far  as  Cathewe  was  concerned,  Mansfield 
considered  that  he  was  waging  lawful  warfare. 
The  initial  attack  had  come  from  Cathewe;  and 
he  had  a  right  to  defend  himself  with  whatever 
weapons  were  available. 

The  sum  of  all  these  psychological  incursions 
and  cogitations  was  this:  Mansfield  was  giving 
Betty  what  she  wanted,  giving  it  to  her  because 
he  loved  her  and  because  another  phrase  of 
Maddox's  was  of  recurrent  quality. 

"If  you  deceive  her,  and  she  finds  it  out,  you 
will  lose  her." 

And  he  was  deceiving  her.  Maddox  had  ad- 
vised him  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  he  had 
permitted  that  opportunity  to  slip  by.  This 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        145 

deception,  however,  was  neither  cynical  nor  cas- 
ual; it  was  based  upon  a  kind  of  unacknowledged 
terror.  The  truth  must  be  kept  from  her.  She 
must  never  know  that  her  father  was  not  the  demi- 
god she  painted  him.  Of  such  is  the  miracle  of 
love. 

All  this,  of  course,  intensified  his  hatred  of 
Cathewe.  If  Betty  ever  did  find  out,  it  would  be 
through  Cathewe  and  his  infernal  newspaper.  So 
Cathewe  should  be  broken.  Not  even  Betty — 
had  she  wanted  to — could  save  the  fellow. 

But  in  regard  to  the  girl,  he  was  like  a  man  fas- 
cinated by  a  precipice.  Something  was  continu- 
ally impelling  him  toward  the  brink — toward 
confession.  Not  that  he  had  committed  any- 
thing criminal  in  the  eyes  of  the  law;  simply,  it 
was  coming  home  to  him  that  he  had  played  a  great 
game  badly,  that  his  power  was  based  upon  ruth- 
lessness  rather  than  upon  business  acumen.  He 
wanted  to  hold  her  love;  for  day  by  day  it  grew 
more  precious. 

As  for  Betty,  surrounded  by  these  labyrinths  of 
tergiversation,  she  felt  herself  confronted  by  a  sing- 
ular fact.  She  was  being  covertly  snubbed :  Nancy 
was  snubbing  her,  the  doctor  (who  was  the  most 
honest  man  in  the  world)  was  snubbing  her,  and 
that  mysterious  young  man  and  his  mother  were 
snubbing  her.  Possessing  a  healthy  pride,  Betty 


146         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

dropped  the  idea  of  finding  out  what  she  craved  to 
know.  But  she  could  not  dismiss  that  remarkable 
pair  from  her  thoughts.  They  stood  out  cameo- 
like  against  the  ordinary  shell  of  Bannister  folks. 
Whenever  she  was  alone  and  idle,  her  thought 
would  leap  back  to  that  marvellous  concert.  In- 
deed, the  beauty  of  the  mother  haunted  her.  She 
often  searched  the  throngs  in  the  street  for  a 
glimpse  of  her,  but  without  success. 

There  was  a  disturbing  phase,  too.  Again  and 
again  there  came  an  almost  irresistible  longing  to 
drive  into  that  quiet  street,  stop  at  that  door  and 
ask  for  music.  Here  in  America  there  was  so  little 
of  it,  especially  in  a  small  city  like  Bannister. 
Hidden  away  in  that  side-street  was  a  great 
pianist,  the  equal  of  any  man  or  woman  she  had 
ever  heard  on  the  concert  stages  of  Europe — an 
American. 

Upon  going  over  the  situation  with  a  frank 
mind,  Betty  was  sure  that  it  would  have  been  easy 
to  dismiss  the  young  man  had  he  not  been  indis- 
solubly  linked  with  the  marvellous  woman  who  was 
his  mother.  A  young  man  who  read  Fabre  in  the 
original  and  whose  mother  played  with  the  fire  of  a 
Paderewski! 

It  is  supposable  that  one  of  the  main  reasons  for 
the  continuance  of  this  odd  situation  was  that 
Betty  was  lonely.  Her  hours  were  frequently 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        147 

crowded  with  action;  still  she  was  lonely  for  the 
companionships  such  as  she  had  known  in  France. 
With  the  exception  of  Nancy — and  she  could  not 
be  with  Nancy  always — she  had  no  friends  such  as 
she  could  run  to  with  confidence.  She  had  gone 
to  France  a  child;  the  young  men  and  women  of 
Bannister  were  strangers;  there  were  no  childhood 
friendships  to  renew.  The  real  friendships  she 
had  formed  were  among  her  schoolmates  in  France; 
and  now  these  were  scattered  over  the  world. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  give  and  take  socially, 
but  she  moved  through  these  affairs  amiably  aloof. 
The  atmosphere  was  not  particularly  congenial. 
She  admired  the  exuberance  and  vitality  of  the 
American  youth,  but  they  lacked  the  indoor 
polish  of  their  foreign  cousins.  Art,  music,  liter- 
ature were  only  approached,  not  explored;  they 
preferred  sports  and  business.  But  one  attribute 
stood  out  clearly,  and  she  gave  it  homage — their 
attitude  toward  women.  She  soon  perceived  that 
upon  this  attitude  the  American  woman  based  her 
freedom  of  action.  Acts  which  in  Europe  would 
be  misconstrued  were  here  perfectly  understood. 

You  may  be  sure  they  hovered  about  her  as 
bees  the  jasmine.  If  they  lacked  finish  them- 
selves they  were  not  blind  to  it  in  others.  There 
was  no  favourite;  she  treated  them  all  alike.  She 
permitted  them  to  teach  her  golf  and  billiards,  and 


148         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

in  return  she  gave  them  tea  and  danced  with  them. 
None  of  them  quite  lost  his  awe  of  her.  She  was 
not  only  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world:  she 
was  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  America.  She 
rather  disappointed  the  young  women  because 
there  was  nothing  about  her  to  criticise. 

Mansfield  still  kept  three  or  four  saddle-horses, 
and  frequently  now  they  two  rode  into  the  country 
in  the  early  morning.  Now  that  she  was  no  longer 
shy,  now  that  her  confidence  in  him  was  absolute, 
she  discovered  to  him  the  beauty  of  her  mind. 
"Her  beauty  is  the  least  of  her.'*  He  would 
never  forget  that  phrase,  even  though  his  bitterest 
enemy  had  made  it. 

He  would  never  forget  one  brilliant,  frosty 
morning.  They  had  dismounted  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  where  she  had  met  Cathewe.  The  brown 
earth  and  the  rusty  boscage  and  the  flashing  blue 
water  of  the  lake  evoked  in  her  the  desire  to  sing. 

When  the  last  glorious  note  died  away,  Mans- 
field asked  in  an  uncertain  voice:  "What  was 
that?" 

"'The  Swallow'." 

"  What  made  you  want  to  sing  like  that?  " 

"All  this'* — with  a  gesture.  "To  see  grandly 
is  to  feel  grandly.  I  love  to  be  up  high,  to  see  far 
horizons.  I  am  wild,  Daddy;  they  never  tamed 
me." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         149 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  are  taming 
me?" — smiling. 

"Are  you  wild?  "  she  flashed  back  at  him. 

"Sometimes  I  wonder  what  I  am.  Sometimes 
I  wish  I  could  be  born  over  again,  just  the  way 
you'd  like  me,  to  be  able  to  anticipate  what  you 
want  so  I  wouldn't  have  to  weigh  the  pro  and  con 
of  everything." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  care  to  have  you  perfect.  I 
wouldn't  have  anything  to  do,  then.  I  wouldn't 
have  anybody  to  boss." 

Somehow  that  meant  more  to  him  than  any 
other  thing — save  one — she  had  ever  said.  She 
had  uttered  it  half  in  jest;  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  eyes  that  convinced  him  that  if  ever  a 
denouement  arrived,  she  would  not  be  without 
generosity.  What  a  wonder-child  it  was ! 

"It  is  glorious  up  here,"  he  said,  his  gaze 
sweeping  about.  "Wonder  who  moved  that  flat 
stone  there  ?  Some  boy,  probably,  hunting  for  ants' 
nests.  The  fun  of  being  a  boy !  Honey,  I  don't 
believe  I  ever  really  was  a  boy.  Your  grandfather 
was  a  religious  bigot;  anything  a  boy  wanted  to  do 
was  wrong  in  the  eyes  of  God.  Oh,  he  was  generous 
with  material  comforts,  sent  me  to  college  and 
footed  the  bills  without  much  grumbling.  But  I 
couldn't  read  novels  on  Sunday.  I  couldn't  go 
walking  or  sparking.  I  just  had  to  sit  around  the 


150         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

house  and  go  to  church  three  times.  I  couldn't 
do  anything  my  boyhood  friends  did.  Why,  even 
Maddox  could  play  baseball  on  Sunday;  and  if  he 
doesn't  go  to  Heaven,  then  it's  no  place -for  an 
honest  man!" 

Betty  laughed  joyously.     "Poor  Daddy ! ' ' 

"It  wasn't  funny  in  those  days.  I  honestly 
believe  it  hardened  me.  I  never  sowed  any  wild- 
oats,  so  my  pent-up  resentment  never  had  any 
outlet.  It  became  petrified." 

"Is  that  a  guilty  conscience?" 

"Have  any  of  us  consciences  free  of  guilt?"  he 
countered. 

Gravely  Betty  walked  over  to  the  flat  stone  and 
touched  it  with  her  foot.  Was  silence  deception? 
Was  she  actually  deceiving  her  father?  Those 
letters!  Was  she  deceiving  her  father  in  regard  to 
them?  But  they  were  meant  for  her  eyes  alone. 
It  would  be  sacrilege  for  a  third  person  to  touch 
them.  After  all,  hiding  the  letters  themselves 
was  not  deception.  The  real  deception  was  that 
she  permitted  him  to  believe  her  heart-whole  and 
free. 

Immediately  an  odd  thing  happened  to  her 
mentally.  Out  of  the  sunshine  and  the  frosty 
mists  came  a  clear  picture.  She  saw  that  beautiful 
mother,  her  white  hair  and  her  serene  face  touched 
magically  by  candlelight:  she  heard  divine  music. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        151 

She  became  afire  with  the  craving  to  hear  it 
again.  A  most  bizarre  resolve  laid  hold  of  her. 
Everything  in  her,  breeding,  teaching,  tradition, 
demanded  that  she  dismiss  this  resolve.  Nancy 
nor  her  father  wanted  Betty  Mansfield  to  know 
that  mother  and  son.  The  doctor  would  not 
have  evaded  her  query  without  a  good  reason. 
And  yet,  Betty  knew  instinctively  that  these  were 
proper  people.  Moreover,  they  belonged  to  that 
class  of  intellectuals  from  which  she  herself  had 
received  her  training. 

"Mother,  this  is  Miss  Mansfield,"  he  had  said; 
but  he  had  not  added:  "My  name  is  so-and-so." 

In  her  world,  persons  who  preferred  to  remain 
unknown  acted  thus  for  significant  reasons:  they 
did  not  care  to  know  you  or  be  known.  But 
against  this  was  their  charming  hospitality.  Had 
they  been  everyday  Bannister  folks,  she  would 
have  passed  on  and  forgotten.  The  unwritten 
law  of  her  kind  forbade  Betty  to  cross  that  thres- 
hold again.  And  she  was  going  to  cross  it  that 
very  afternoon. 

She  knew  that  the  name  of  the  editor  of  the 
Herald  was  Brandon  Cathewe;  but  beyond  that, 
nothing.  This  is  easily  explained.  Wherever 
she  went,  that  name  was  tabu.  No  one  ever 
mentioned  either  the  editor  or  his  newspaper  in 
her  presence  for  fear  of  offending  her.  She  was 


152         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

incurious.  The  affair  which  she  was  forwarding 
did  not  necessitate  any  personal  information  re- 
garding the  editor.  For  all  she  cared  he  might 
be  one  of  the  Boanerges  or  out  of  Brobdignag. 
She  had,  it  is  true,  drawn  a  careless  mental 
picture  of  him — a  copy  of  an  editor  she  had  once 
seen — a  wild-eyed,  dark-haired,  shabby  individ- 
ual of  the  anarchist  type. 

"I  am  ready,"  she  said  to  her  father. 

She  gathered  up  the  reins  and  swung  herself  into 
the  saddle.  Mansfield  followed,  rather  startled  at 
the  abruptness. 

At  half  after  two  that  afternoon  Betty  opened 
the  gate  and  hurried  up  to  the  door  of  the  house 
with  the  white  clapboards.  This  haste  was  an 
urgency  of  fear — fear  that  if  she  hesitated  or 
looked  back,  she  would  not  dare  go  on  with  the 
mad  adventure.  She  rang  the  bell  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  housemaid  opened  the  door  a  little 
way,  cautiously,  to  make  note  of  the 
visitor's  character.  Here  in  America  one 
had  to  be  careful  of  the  front  doors  of  frame 
houses.  The  free  lance  of  business  was  legion, 
and  full  of  affable  effrontery.  The  instant  the  maid 
recognized  Betty,  she  drew  the  door  full-wide. 
One  did  not  forget  Betty  overnight. 

As  the  beautiful  adventuress,  dazzled  by  her 
temerity,  stepped  across  the  threshold,  the  maid 
closed  the  hall  door  and  opened  that  which  gave 
into  the  living  room. 

"I  veel  announce  Ma'm'selle.  .  .  ."  began 
the  maid  in  broken  English. 

"You  are  French?"  interrupted  Betty,  eagerly, 
in  that  beloved  tongue. 

"But  no,  Ma'm'selle.  I  am  Belgian.  I  am  a 
refugee.  Monsieur  brought  me  here  from  New 
York.  I  go  to  summon  Madame." 

Charity,  thought  Betty;  the  finest  kind,  that 
permitted  the  recipient  to  retain  self-respect.  A 
Belgian  refugee  in  Bannister  and  domiciled  in 
this  house  of  subtle  mystery!  Somehow  this  re- 

153 


154         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

assured  Betty  that  her  instinct  was  right:  these 
people  were  to  be  trusted  in  spite  of  the  mystery 
behind  which  they  chose  to  barricade  themselves. 

She  entered  the  living  room  and  sat  down  on 
the  lounge.  Her  heart  wasn't  quite  right;  it  re- 
fused to  behave.  In  fact,  it  was  thumping  in  a 
most  disloyal  fashion. 

Presently  she  had  the  courage  to  look  about. 
The  room  was  brilliant  with  sunshine,  and  every 
article  stood  out  clearly  and  invitingly.  She  had 
not  been  able  to  observe  very  well  that  memorable 
evening  in  the  candlelight.  She  became  amazed; 
and  this  amazement,  carrying  away  all  personal 
thought,  had  the  welcome  effect  of  lessening  her 
heart-beats. 

Treasures.  The  Chinese  rug  on  the  floor  was 
antique;  probably  the  only  one  of  its  kind  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  On  the  mantel  over  the  fire- 
place was  a  peachblow  vase.  Not  an  ordinary 
piece  of  furniture,  not  a  second-rate  painting. 
Not  even  in  her  own  home,  the  finest  on  Polygon 
Hill,  were  there  antiques  which  approached  these 
in  beauty  and  quality.  Here,  in  a  little  ordinary 
clapboard  house!  Who  could  they  be  and  what 
had  brought  them  to  Bannister? 

Beyond  the  rosewood  piano — the  spread  was  a 
rare  bit  of  Japanese  silk  tapestry,  rivalling  in 
colour  the  Polish  rugs — on  the  wall  was  a  series  of 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        155 

photographs.  From  where  she  sat  she  could  see 
that  they  were  all  autographed,  and  two  of  the 
photographs  she  recognized — Rubenstein's  and 
Paderewski's.  After  all,  there  was  nothing  as- 
tonishing in  this.  It  was  perfectly  reasonable 
that  two  such  great  musicians  should  pay  homage 
to  another  who  was  quite  their  equal.  But  what 
was  not  reasonable  was  that  this  equal  should  be 
hidden  away  in  an  obscure  street  in  an  obscure 
town. 

Footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Betty  stood  up  just  as 
the  subject  of  these  cogitations  entered  the  room. 
The  hostess  came  forward  with  both  hands  out- 
stretched, with  a  frankly  amused  smile  on  her  lips. 

"I  know,"  she  began  at  once.  "You  have 
come  back  for  some  music." 

"I  feel  so  ashamed!  I  don't  know,  but  I 
believe  you  have  hypnotized  me.  I  wasn't  invited 
to  come  again." 

"Indeed  you  were,"  replied  the  musician. 

"I  was?"— delighted. 

"I  do  not  play  for  strangers  ordinarily;  and  I 
did  play  for  you." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  know  how  to  feel,  because  you 
have  a  soul  which  responds  to  beauty,  whether  it 
be  a  picture  or  a  sound."  Mrs.  Cathewe  led  the 
girl  to  the  chair  Sonny  occupied  when  she  played 


156         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

for  him.  "Sit  here  where  I  can  see  you  while  I 
play.  What  is  your  mood?  " 

"My  mood?  I  don't  exactly  know.  Perhaps 
I'm  a  little  sad,"  said  Betty.  "And  I  am  still 
bewildered  over  my  boldness." 

"In  surrendering  to  a  fine  craving?  Nonsense! 
You  will  always  be  welcome.  Come  any  time 
when  you  feel  the  mood." 

"May  I  ask  you  one  question? "  —timidly. 

Mrs.  Cathewe  hesitated  the  fraction  of  a  second. 
"Ask  it." 

"Have  you  ever  performed  in  public?  " 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Mrs.  Cathewe  answered: 
"When  I  was  eighteen  I  made  my  debut  in 
Vienna.  But  I  was  not  a  success.  I  was  one  of 
those  unfortunate  persons  whose  nerves  go  to 
pieces  before  large  audiences.  I  had  ambition, 
but  I  lacked  that  incentive  which  conquers 
nervousness — the  dread  of  poverty.  It  is  pe- 
culiar, isn't  it,  that  truly  great  artists  always 
come  from  that  background.  Bread  and  butter 
and  genius;  and  I  never  had  to  want  for  bread  and 
butter." 

She  struck  the  opening  bars  of  Mendelssohn's 
"Capriccio."  She  possessed  that  marvellous  faculty 
of  playing  without  apparently  watching  the  keys. 
What  a  beautiful  child  it  was!  Poor  Sonny,  with 
that  remarkable  insight  to  character  which  was 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        157 

his,  he  had  read  this  girl  aright  the  first  time. 
She  was  desirable. 

To  win  her  friendship  this  day  against  that 
when,  inevitable  as  it  must  be,  the  girl  learned 
the  truth,  that  Sonny  was  right  and  her  father 
was  wrong.  To  give  her  comparisons  by  which 
to  judge.  And  what  manner  of  father  was  it  who 
could  not  throw  ambition  to  the  winds  before 
the  altar  of  such  perfect  womanhood?  As  she 
approached  the  finale  of  the  "Capriccio,"  she  struck 
a  discord.  Sonny!  She  had  forgotten.  He  was 
in  his  study  at  work,  and  he  ought  never  to  be 
disturbed.  And  he  would  be  wondering  what  all 
this  was  about,  enter,  and  spoil  his  mother's  little 
plot.  She  began  the  "Spinnerlied."  She  followed 
this  with  selections  from  Brahms,  Grieg,  Chopin, 
Rubenstein,  and  Rachmaninoff.  Then  she  drop- 
ped her  hands  to  her  lap. 

"You  are  very  wonderful,"  said  Betty.  "How 
do  you  remember  them  all  without  a  note  in  front 
of  you?" 

"It  cost  a  good  deal  of  hard  work.  You  are 
very  wonderful,  too." 

Mrs.  Cathewe  left  the  seat  and  knelt  before 
the  music  case,  a  piece  of  beautiful  Florentine 
marquetry.  Presently  she  held  up  a  sheet  of 
music  so  that  Betty  could  see  the  title.  It  was 
one  of  Wolf-Ferrarri's  exquisite  songs. 


158         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Do  you  know  that?" 

"Why     .     .     .     why,  yes!" 

"Will  you  sing  it  for  me?" 

"I'll  try  to,  if  you'll  play  the  accompaniment." 

Her  voice  was  naturally  a  little  husky  and  un- 
certain at  first,  but  after  the  third  attempt  she 
found  herself  calm  and  confident;  and  her  sweet, 
high  soprano  filled  the  room.  It  was  not  simply 
a  good  voice  well  trained.  It  had  fire,  colour, 
tenderness;  it  was  the  girl  herself,  what  she  was  hi 
spirit.  She  sang  three  other  songs;  and  then  Mrs. 
Cathewe  got  up  and  impulsively  seized  the  girl 
by  the  arms. 

"You  are  a  nightingale!  With  your  beauty  and 
that  voice,  you  could  set  the  world  on  fire." 

"I  am  not  ambitious.  I  lack  the  incentive,  too. 
Sometimes  I  sing  for  charity;  but  otherwise  I  never 
appear  in  pulbic.  I  sing  for  the  same  reason  you 
play — because  I  love  to." 

"Will  you  have  tea?" 

"No,  no!  I  must  be  going.  If  only  you  could 
understand  what  pleasure  you  have  given  me! 
May  .  .  .  may  I  come  again  some  day?" 

"Come  whenever  you  feel  like  it.  I  am  nearly 
always  here." 

And  then  the  mother  of  Sonny  performed  one 
of  those  acts  which  artistic  souls  alone  have  the 
courage  to  perform.  She  caught  the  girl  in  her 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         159 

arms  and  embraced  her;  and  Betty  was  pleased, 
thrilled,  astonished.  The  variant  emotions  rip- 
pled over  her  face  as  a  light  breeze  ripples  over  the 
surface  of  a  stream. 

With  their  arms  locked  they  proceeded  to  the 
door. 

"I  think,"  said  Betty,  gravely,  "that  you  are 
just  glorious!" 

Then  she  ran  down  the  steps  to  the  gate,  which 
she  sent  behind  her  with  a  click.  Mrs.  Cathewe 
remained  in  the  doorway  until  Betty  reached  the 
corner;  then  she  closed  the  door  and  walked 
thoughtfully  toward  the  study.  She  noticed 
that  the  door  was  open  the  space  of  a  hand.  She 
pushed  in  to  find  Cathewe  with  his  head  on  his 
arms.  She  stooped  and  kissed  his  neck. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do,  mother?"  he  said, 
without  stirring. 

"  I  don't  know,  Sonny.  I  am  falling  in  love  with 
her  myself.  I  had  no  idea  she  could  sing  like  that. 
I  am  very  glad  she  came  as  she  did — just  to  hear 
me  play." 

"Are  you  sure  that  was  the  reason?"  Cathewe 
sat  up. 

"Absolutely  sure." 

"You  did  not  give  the  name?" 

"  She  did  not  ask  for  it.  I  am  very  sorry  for  her, 
too.  When  she  finds  out  who  you  are,  there  will 


160         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

be  doubts.  She  is  odd,  this  child.  She  has  been 
reared  in  a  particularly  fine  manner.  When  the 
hour  comes  she  will  put  her  father  on  one  side  of 
the  scales  and  you  and  me  on  the  other.  She  is 
of  the  sort  who  are  terribly  just — like  the  French 
who  brought  her  up.  She  is  French.  She  has 
absorbed  the  nationality  of  that  people.  She 
is  trying  to  be  an  American.  I  believe  she  is  very 
lonely  here.  My  poor  Sonny!  What  a  terrible 
mistress  Honour  is!  She  is  like  that  Nuremburg 
Maid:  she  tortures  you  when  she  embraces  you." 

"I'll  see  it  through." 

"Is  he  so  bad?" 

"The  man  who  opened  my  safe  did  so  at  the 
orders  of  Mansfield.  From  your  description  and 
the  patrolman's  frank  dismay,  I  at  once  had 
my  suspicions.  I  confirmed  them.  The  man  was 
a  plain-clothes  detective  from  the  police-station. 
What  is  the  inference?  That  Mansfield's  sinister 
influence  there  has  made  the  police  blind  and  in- 
efficient. The  amazing  fact  in  American  politics 
is  this:  a  single  man  holds  a  town  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand.  He  can  order  this  and  that  to  be 
done,  and  it  is  done.  Simply  because  he  orders 
it.  He  says  that  this  or  that  man  shall  be 
elected  or  broken.  It  is  done.  Now,  this  man's 
power  is  not  based  upon  anything  but  habit,  re- 
markable as  that  statement  may  seem.  He  could  be 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        16i 

overthrown  by  a  turn  of  the  hand.  And  the  reason 
this  hand  is  never  turned  is  a  human  reason: 
Human  beings  find  it  easier  to  be  inefficient  than 
to  be  efficient.  Many  of  the  men  who  commit 
these  acts  under  command  are  honest  according 
to  their  lights.  They  consider  that  their  moral 
obligations  are  to  the  boss  rather  than  to  the  town. 
I  am  trying  to  convince  the  people  in  Bannister 
that  a  boss  is  lichen,  fungus,  worthless  and  useless. 
A  King  will  hang  on  to  his  crown  no  matter  how 
bloody  his  feet  may  be.  So  it  is  with  the  American 
political  boss.  Mansfield  has  the  police  and  fire 
department  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand;  he  dictates 
to  the  common  council,  to  the  State  Senators 
and  the  Assemblymen,  simply  because  a  boss  is  a 
boss,  and  the  American  public  has  really  never 
attempted  to  analyze  his  power.  He  secured 
his  street-car  franchise  for  nothing,  for  merely 
improving  the  street  through  which  his  cars  run. 
This  rank  exemption  from  taxation  compels  the 
people  to  pay  extra  heavily;  and  in  that  direction 
there  is  no  redress,  for  the  franchise  extends  to 
ninety -nine  years.  He  owns  the  controlling  in- 
terest in  the  other  newspapers,  and  that  is  why  I 
have  to  stand  alone.  He's  done  petty  and  mean 
things  in  business.  You  remember  that  poor 
inventor.  There  are  many  instances  like  that. 
He  owns  property  all  over  town,  but  only  the  fine 


162         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

buildings  are  recorded  in  his  name.  And  I'm 
going  to  knock  his  crown  from  his  head  .  .  . 
and  give  up  the  girl  I  love.  I've  got  to.  I  created 
this  situation,  and  there  is  nothing  for  me  but  to 
follow  through." 

"And  you  will  win.'* 

"If  Mansfield  doesn't  find  out  my  secret  too 
soon.  .  .  .  There's  the  bell." 

It  was  Nancy.  She  came  in,  bright  of  eye  and 
rosy-cheeked. 

"Mother  Cathewe,  I've  come  to  take  you  for  a 
ride." 

"And  Mother  Cathewe  will  be  delighted  to  go. 
I'll  run  up  and  change." 

"You're  like  a  breath  of  air  from  the  hills, 
Nancy,"  said  Cathewe,  as  he  sat  down  on  the 
lounge  beside  the  visitor. 

But  Nancy  did  not  return  his  smile. 

"Consciences  are  nuisances,  aren't  they?"  she 
began. 

"What's  yours  bothering  you  about?"  —lightly. 

"It's  been  calling  out  loud  for  several  days, 
Brand.  I'm  a  thief.  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  that 
what  I  actually  took  was  a  trifle.  I  stole  also  a 
secret  to  which  I  had  no  right." 

"Well,  let's  hear  the  confession.  Editors  and 
priests  and  family  physicians  all  are  in  the  same 
category." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         163 

"Editors?" 

"Yes,  Nancy.  A  lot  of  secrets  come  into  my 
office  that  never  go  out." 

"Well,  then,  a  few  days  ago  I  came  in  to  take 
your  mother  out,  and  while  she  was  upstairs 
dressing  I  saw  your  study  door  open." 

"I  see.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  cut  off  your  head 
and  hang  it  up  in  the  closet.  You  found  out  I  was 
George  Cottar?" 

"Yes,  I  feel  dreadfully  about  it." 

"Nonsense!  It  doesn't  matter,  or  it  won't 
matter,  once  I'm  through  this  Mansfield  fight. 
But  I  didn't  miss  anything." 

"I  took  a  rejected  sheet  out  of  the  waste- 
basket  and  carried  it  off." 

"Scandalous!"  He  laughed.  "Keep  it.  Some- 
day I'll  autograph  it  for  you,  if  you  care." 

"I  may  keep  it?" — eagerly. 

"With  the  clearest  conscience  in  the  world." 

"But  why  a  nom  de  plume? " 

"Oh,  I  never  dreamed  I  would  be  successful. 
When  I  finished  that  first  novel,  I  just  tacked 
George  Cottar  to  it  and  shipped  it  off.  My 
publishers  still  believe  my  name  to  be  Cottar. 
You'll  keep  the  secret  for  a  little  while  longer?" 

"As  long  as  you  want  me  to.  You've  been 
just  splendid  about  it.  I  just  walked  into  your 
study  without  the  least  thought  about  the  pro- 


164         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

priety  of  the  act.  An  author,  right  across  the 
street!" 

"I  tell  you  what,  Nancy.  Some  afternoon  I'll 
run  over  and  read  you  what  IVe  got  done  of  a  new 
book.  You've  got  such  good  judgment,  I'd  like 
your  opinion." 

Nancy  became  radiant.  And  there  entered 
his  heart  a  sudden  distaste  of  life.  If  only  it  had 
been  this  girl  instead !  For  Nancy  was  just  as  fine 
and  lovable  as  Betty.  It  was  merely  an  accident 
that  he  loved  the  latter  instead  of  the  former. 

"Brand,  what  did  she  want?" 

"Want?     Who?" 

"Betty.  I  saw  her  leave  just  as  I  opened  the 
garage  doors." 

"She  came  on  one  of  those  singular  impulses 
to  which  we  all  surrender  at  times.  Mother,  in  a 
manner  peculiarly  her  own,  has  fascinated  Miss 
Mansfield.  She  came  to  hear  mother  play.  And 
Lordy,  you  never  told  me  she  could  sing  like  that! 
She  didn't  see  me.  I  stuck  to  the  study  and  didn't 
come  out  until  you  rang." 

"She  doesn't  know,  then?" 

"No." 

"Brand,  it's  a  tragedy!" 

"In  more  ways  than  one,  Nancy.  By  the  way, 
have  you  got  that  sheet  of  manuscript  with  you?" 
he  broke  off. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         165 


She  gave  it  to  him.  He  went  into  the  study 
and  returned  shortly.  Across  the  face  of  the  manu- 
script he  had  written:  "From  George  Cottar  to 
Nancy  Maddox,  his  friend." 

"Thanks.     What  beautiful  script  you  write!" 

"That's  because  I'm  fussy.  When  I  cross  out 
a  word,  I  generally  throw  the  sheet  away.  A 
scandalous  waste  of  paper,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
Here's  that  mother  o'  mine." 

When  she  returned  home,  Nancy  ran  straight 
to  her  room,  turned  on  the  light,  and  got  out  that 
precious  page  of  manuscript.  "From  George 
Cottar  to  Nancy  Maddox,  his  friend."  Having 
possessed  a  guilty  conscience  regarding  the  theft 
of  the  sheet,  she  had  not  dared  scrutinize  it  hereto- 
fore. She  had  been  ashamed  to  take  it  out  of  the 
drawer.  But  now  she  had  a  right.  So  she  read 
the  page  through,  and  presently  was  struck  by  the 
curious  method  by  which  Cathewe  concluded 
his  sentences.  A  little  cross,  resembling  an  x. 
Now,  what  did  that  stir  in  her  mind?  A  cross, 
resembling  the  little  x.  But  the  riddle  remained 
unsolved. 

That  night  a  new  phase  of  the  drama  unrolled. 
Cathewe  was  at  his  desk  as  usual,  reading  some 
proofs.  The  real-estate  reporter — truthfully,  the 
cub,  for  the  markets  and  real-estate  were  his  reg- 
ular assignments,  these  jobs  being  the  bill  of  fare 


166         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

of  all  cubs  on  provincial  newspapers — came  in 
rather  breathlessly. 

"Mr.  Cathewe,  I've  stumbled  on  the  rip-bang- 
ingest  yarn  you  ever  heard  tell  on." 

"What's  happened?"  asked  Cathewe,  cordially. 
He  did  not  hold  to  the  tradition  that  to  make  a 
reporter  out  of  a  cub  one  had  to  scare  him  to  death 
first. 

"Well,  I  came  to  you  because  it  concerns 
Mansfield." 

"Ah!" 

"Know  those  tenements  and  shacks  down  by 
his  mills?" 

"Yes.  Supposed  to  be  owned  by  Colvin,  but 
in  reality  owned  by  Mr.  Mansfield.  Go  on." 

"And  those  unsavory  apartments  on  Melville 
Street?" 

Cathewe  nodded.     "Also  owned  by  Mansfield." 

"Well,  the  sale  of  them  was  recorded  with  the 
clerk  this  afternoon." 

"Who  purchased  them?" 

"Miss  Mansfield!" 


CHAPTER   XV 

CATHEWE  rocked  in  his  swivel  chair  for  a 
moment. 
"Mr.  White,"  he  said,  frankly,  "I  don't 
want  this  repeated  to  a  soul.     This  is  a  personal 
affair  between  Mansfield  and  his  daughter." 

"But  the  whole  town  will  hear  of  it — selling 
property  to  his  daughter  through  a  dummy,"  pro- 
tested the  cub,  who  saw  his  aureola  vanishing  in 
the  distance. 

"There's  a  light  on  the  affair  that  you  would 
naturally  miss.  The  town  will  miss  it,  too.  I 
have  neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination  to  go 
into  details.  To  you  and  to  others  it  looks  as  if 
Mansfield  were  rooking  his  daughter.  No.  It's  a 
good  story,  but  we  can't  use  it.  Never  be  afraid  to 
come  directly  to  me  when  you've  got  a  good  yarn. 
Not  a  word  to  any  one,  mind  you."  And  with  a 
pleasant  nod  he  dismissed  the  disappointed  cub. 

Cathewe  got  up,  fired  his  pipe,  and  began  pacing, 
with  wisps  of  smoke  whirling  and  twisting  be- 
hind him.  His  door  being  open  as  usual,  those 
in  the  city  room,  where  the  reporters  do  their 
writing,  saw  him  flash  past  the  door  and  return  at 

167 


168         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

least  twenty  times  before  he  ceased  to  appear. 
This  generally  signified  that  the  chief  was  up 
in  the  air  over  something.  And  so  he  was.  He 
had  just  received  a  bit  of  news  that  had  shaken 
him  profoundly,  for  he  perfectly  understood  the 
meaning  of  it. 

He  knew  that  Betty  Mansfield  had  a  large  inde- 
pendent fortune  of  her  own.  Still,  she  would  never 
have  bought  those  pieces  of  property  without 
consulting  her  father.  Rooking  his  daughter? 
No.  The  savage  irony  of  it!  Mansfield  had  let 
her  spend  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  of  her 
own  money  because  he  had  not  dared  confess  to 
her  that  he  was  the  real  proprietor  of  those  blisters 
on  the  face  of  a  fair  city.  Why  had  he  not  dared? 
What  else  might  it  be  except  that  he  now  loved  her 
and  wanted  desperately  to  hold  her?  But  what 
indescribable  phase  of  myopia  had  prevented  him 
from  coming  out  into  the  open  and  giving  the 
property  to  her  to  do  with  as  she  pleased?  A 
keen  brain  like  Mansfield's,  to  permit  his  feet  to 
stray  into  a  bog  like  this !  The  first  lie,  the  second, 
and  then  the  swarming  legions. 

Cathewe  laid  his  pipe  on  his  desk  and  crossed 
over  to  a  window  from  which  he  stared  at  the 
November  stars.  He  wondered  how  Mansfield 
had  failed  to  see  how  the  town  would  interpret 
this  equivocal  sale  of  property.  The  ironmonger 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         169 

was  disliked  so  heartily  that  folks  would  be  only 
too  happy  to  attribute  the  worst  to  him,  that  of 
mulcting  his  daughter  of  her  personal  fortune. 
And  it  was  inevitable  that  she  should  find  out 
some  day.  One  thing  was  clear:  the  child  Mans- 
field had  sent  away  so  as  not  to  be  bothered  with 
her  was  winning  him  and  turning  the  glance  of  his 
eyes  inward.  This  predatory  and  paternal  Ingo- 
mar  was  in  love  at  last.  And  this  love  was  ob- 
fuscating his  perspectives.  A  temporary  stay  in 
the  court  of  fate. 

He  began  to  feel  sorry  for  Mansfield,  for  he  saw 
what  Mansfield  was  soon  to  lose.  With  a  crystal 
soul  like  Betty's,  love  must  have  its  foundation 
upon  respect.  Tear  this  away,  and  the  whole  edi- 
fice must  topple. 

What  effect  had  those  letters  upon  her?  he 
wondered.  Had  she  kept  them  or  torn  them  up? 
Had  they  intrigued  her  or  only  amused  her? 
Would  events  ever  reach  that  point  where  a  so- 
lution to  the  mystery  would  arrive?  What  a 
voice!  Supposing  he  wrote  to  her  again?  On 
the  following  night  he  would  be  in  New  York. 
He  could  mail  the  letter  from  there.  And  per- 
haps Nancy  would  note  the  effect,  or  his  mother, 
if  Betty  came  again  to  hear  her  play.  But  what 
was  the  use?  Circumstance  had  put  him  beyond 
the  pale. 


170         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

At  three  o'clock  that  morning  he  stole  up  the 
path  to  the  Maddox  front  door  and  pushed  a 
letter  through  the  slot.  And  the  doctor  read  this 
remarkable  letter  while  at  the  breakfast  table : 

.  .  .  .  I  honestly  feel  sorry  for  him.  I'm  waging 
war  against  him,  yes,  but  I'm  waging  it  above  board.  You 
go  to  him  and  urge  him  to  confess  about  this  real-estate 
transaction.  Impress  upon  him  that  the  town  will  interpret 
the  deal  as  a  desire  on  his  part  to  absorb  his  daughter's  for- 
tune. I  am  quite  confident  that  he  now  loves  her,  but  it  is 
evident  that  he  has  lost  his  balance.  Keep  me  out  of  it,  of 
course.  I  could  use  this  weapon  with  profound  effect — if  I 
were  a  first-rate  scoundrel.  But  I  want  to  play  the  game 
on  the  square.  Go  to  him  as  soon  as  you  can. 

Maddox  carried  the  letter  in  his  pocket  for 
three  days  before  rediscovering  it.  On  the  morn- 
ing of  the  third  day,  when  he  found  and  reread 
it,  he  announced  to  his  family  to  have  the  patients 
wait.  He  was  going  on  an  errand  and  would  not 
be  back  until  ten. 

He  got  into  his  rattling  chariot  and  steered  for 
Polygon  Hill.  He  caught  Mansfield  just  as  the 
latter  was  starting  out  for  the  mills. 

"Dunleigh,  I  want  a  little  talk  with  you;  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes.  Vital,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"All  right,  John.  Come  into  the  study." 
Arriving  there,  Mansfield  indicated  a  chair. 
"Well,  what's  on  your  mind?" 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        171 

"I  want  you  to  read  this  letter,  Dunleigh. 
I'm  breaking  a  confidence,  but  I  think  it  best  that 
you  get  an  unbiased  point  of  view." 

When  Mansfield  returned  the  letter  his  face 
was  gray. 

"John,  it  is  too  late." 

"I  warned  you." 

"I  know.     But  what  can  I  do?" 

"Tell  her." 

"And  lose  her!" 

"There  is  a  chance  if  you  tell  her;  there  is  none 
if  you  don't.  Murder  will  out.  And  there's  an- 
other point.  You've  called  this  young  chap  a 
scoundrel.  He  is  an  honest  man.  He  is  not  after 
you  personally,  as  that  letter  proves.  He  is 
after  you  publicly.  The  clerk  of  deeds  will  talk. 
He  knows.  In  a  week  or  two  it  will  be  all  over 
town." 

"John,  the  money  Betty  paid  for  that  property 
goes  back  into  it  two-fold.  I  told  her  she  could 
buy  them  and  I  would  rebuild.  On  the  day  the 
last  shingle  goes  on  I  intend  to  return  to  her  her 
check.  Just  now  she  insists  that  her  money  shall 
do  the  buying.  I  wanted  to  please  her.  I  simply 
couldn't  tell  her  part  of  my  income  for  years  has 
been  from  those  .  .  .  those  places.  We 
drove  around  town  one  day,  and  she  told  me 
what  she  wanted  to  do  for  Bannister;  and  I  gave 


172         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

her  a  free  hand.  Her  money  is  hers  without 
restrictions.  She  can  have  anything  and  every- 
thing  " 

"But  the  truth.  And  that,  Dunleigh,  means 
more  to  her  than  a  thousand  millions.  Here's  a 
way  out.  She  wanted  to  go  to  France.  Let  her 
go;  and  while  she's  over  there,  clean  up  this  mess." 

"But  she's  got  over  that  idea.  She  believes 
that  Bannister  needs  her.  She's  also  got  the  idea 
that  soon  we'll  be  in  war,  and  her  duty  lies  here. 
I'd  let  her  go  to  France  in  a  minute.  I  made  my 
mistake  in  bringing  her  here." 

"No;  the  mistake  lies  in  the  fact  that  you 
brought  her  back  blind.  Now,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  Cathewe?" 

"Break  him!"  Mansfield  brought  his  fist  down 
upon  his  desk.  "Break  him!  I  am  iron  there. 
I'll  tell  you  why."  And  he  recounted  the  episode 
on  board  the  giant  Cunarder  in  1912. 

As  he  listened  to  this  almost  incredible  tale 
the  doctor's  heart  went  down,  down.  So  this  was 
it!  The  boy  loved  Betty,  had  come  here  to  win 
her,  and  his  anger  against  Mansfield's  malefactions 
had  switched  him  on  to  another  trail.  Nancy! 
Gentle  and  merry  and  kindly.  .  .  .  Nancy 
whom  his  keen,  paternal  eyes  read  like  a  book; 
his  daughter!  Out  of  all  these  curious  actions 
and  reactions  hers  would  be  the  broken  heart. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        173 

He  put  Cathewe's  letter  away  and  got  up. 
"Dunleigh,  you're  going  to  lose  your  fight.  You're 
going  to  lose  your  daughter,  too.  You  have 
chosen  tortuous  labyrinths  when  a  clear,  straight 
path  was  in  front  of  you!  Well,  my  patients 
are  waiting.  I'll  bid  you  good  morning." 

"John,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Tell  her,  man;  tell  her  why  you  played  such 
a  farce  as  this  real-estate  deal.  Tell  her  it  was 
because  you  feared  to  lose  her.  Tell  her  the  truth. 
Tell  her  that  for  years  you've  lived  for  and  by 
yourself,  a  monument  to  selfishness.  Tell  her 
you  took  rents  from  the  plague  districts  because 
you'd  lost  the  perspectives  of  morality.  That 
you  never  cared  who  rented  those  flats  and  apart- 
ments so  long  as  the  rents  were  forthcoming. 
Tell  her  you've  taken  money  from  honest  men 
through  legal  trickery.  Tell  her  that  you  had 
forgotten  her  mother.  Lord,  Lord!  Don't  you 
know  that  women  always  forgive,  if  you  tell  them; 
that  they  never  forgive  if  the  story  comes  to  them 
from  a  third  person?  You've  got  the  idea  that 
you  must  cringe.  Tell  her  with  your  chin  up. 
If  you've  got  to  lose  her,  lose  her  like  a  sports- 
man"; and  the  indignant  Maddox  rushed  out  of 
the  study  and  out  of  the  house. 

Mansfield,  with  rather  a  childish  burst  of  fury 
against  the  tides  of  fate  that  were  closing  in  upon 


174         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

him,  stalked  to  the  study  door  and  locked  it. 
How  many  times  did  he  stride  from  the  fireplace 
to  the  far  wall  and  back?  A  hundred  times — 
two,  three  hundred  times. 

Until  this  hour  he  had  looked  upon  the  real- 
estate  deal  with  a  kind  of  dry  humour.  When 
the  hour  came  he  would  refund  Betty's  outlay. 
Wasn't  that  enough?  What  business  was  it  of 
Bannister's?  Wasn't  he  giving  her  what  she 
wanted,  no  matter  how  much  it  went  against  the 
(grain?  Weren't  contractors  this  very  day  excavat- 
ing for  a  pipe-line  from  the  city  main  that  would 
make  the  munitions  plant  as  safe  as  the  downtown 
district?  Maddox  was  an  old  fool. 

Betty  telephoned  that  she  would  have  luncheon 
at  the  Red  Cross  Headquarters,  so  her  father  had 
to  dine  alone.  It  was  just  as  well.  He  was  in 
that  quality  of  mood  that  prefers  isolation.  At 
the  office  that  afternoon  he  found  fault  with  every- 
thing and  everybody,  which  was  so  unusual  that 
a  rumour  quietly  circulated  that  he  had  lost  heavily 
on  some  war  stock. 

And  always  somewhere  in  the  woodpile  was 
that  fellow  Cathewe.  How  often  he  regretted 
that  day  when,  instead  of  attempting  to  play  a 
saturnine  joke,  he  might  have  turned  the  young 
fool  over  to  the  deck-steward  and  ended  the  affair 
then  and  there. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         175 

He  dropped  into  his  club  at  five  and  decided 
to  dine  there.  He  was  still  in  a  towering  rage, 
and  he  did  not  care  to  face  the  girl's  clear  eyes 
until  he  had  himself  in  hand.  But  he  brought 
home  some  new  books  and  a  box  of  candy,  which 
he  placed  before  her  door. 

He  had  by  this  time  argued  himself  into  a  line 
of  action — with  specious  arguments  whose  strength 
lay  in  their  cumulation.  Here  he  was,  trying 
the  best  he  knew  how  to  clean  up  the  ugly  spots, 
and  they  insisted  upon  confronting  him  with 
problems  he  did  not  want  to  solve.  What  mat- 
tered it  how  the  end  was  attained  so  long  as  it  was 
attained?  What  would  Bannister  have  been 
but  for  Dunleigh  Mansfield?  He  had  brought 
ships  into  the  harbour  and  trains  into  the  terminal 
and  decent  wages  into  pay-envelopes. 

In  every  American  city  of  the  second  class  there 
are  districts  which  were  but  are  no  longer  fashion- 
able. The  volatile  nature  of  the  American  creates 
one  district  after  another,  as  his  prosperity  ad- 
vances. There  is  very  little  sentiment  in  his  sys- 
tem in  regard  to  his  habitation.  He  wants  the 
best;  and  as  his  fortunes  permit,  he  moves. 

Maddox,  however,  was  not  of  this  breed.  In 
the  house  in  which  he  lived  his  grandfather — a 
fresh-water  sailor — had  been  his  father  and  himself 


176         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

born.  It  was  of  limestone,  weather-worn  to  a 
pale  gray.  Millions  would  not  have  lured  him  to 
Polygon  Hill.  In  the  great  lakes  district  there 
are  thousands  like  it.  Square  and  commodious, 
the  Maddox  home  was  set  in  a  grove  of  maple  and 
elm  and  beech.  The  barn  was  also  of  limestone. 
The  loft,  once  smelly  with  clover  and  timothy, 
was  now  filled  with  a  jumble  of  carriages.  The 
ground  floor  had  been  turned  into  a  garage  only 
when  Maddox  was  convinced  that  hurry-call 
patients  would  have  a  better  chance  if  he  relied 
upon  engines  and  gasoline. 

Maddox  had  a  good  income,  but  it  was  an  in- 
come for  which  he  had  to  labour  continuously. 
He  made  about  fifteen  thousand  a  year  and  gave 
away  half.  He  was  careless,  too,  not  in  his  obliga- 
tions to  others  but  regarding  theirs  to  him.  He 
never  pressed  for  payment.  He  was  the  despair 
of  Nancy,  who  kept  the  books;  she  never  knew 
what  to  depend  upon. 

He  stopped  the  ancient  chariot  at  the  stepping 
stone  and  climbed  out.  He  hoped  there  wouldn't 
be  any  patient  in  the  office.  He  did  not  want  to 
see  tongues  or  feel  of  pulses.  His  own  heart  was 
in  agony. 

Nancy!  He  had  not  studied  human  beings 
all  these  years  for  nothing.  Nancy  loved  that 
boy.  She  might  not  be  absolutely  aware  of  it. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        177 

And  now  her  heart  was  going  to  be  bruised  beyond 
healing;  and  her  father,  physician  though  he  was, 
could  not  help  her.  Oh,  he  knew  the  child. 
When  the  blow  fell  she  would  hold  her  chin  up. 
She  would  go  on  with  the  routine  of  life  without 
giving  any  sign  to  the  world.  Not  even  her 
mother  would  suspect.  But  alone  in  her  room— 
those  heart-tearing  sobs  she  would  hide  and 
smother  in  her  pillow! 

So  that  was  it!  The  secret  was  out.  Cathewe 
loved  Betty,  and  had  come  to  Bannister  upon 
what  normal  men  would  have  called  a  forlorn 
hope — to  make  himself  a  force  in  Bannister. 
And  he  had,  in  face  of  great  odds;  and  at  the  same 
time  dug  a  gulf  the  width  of  the  Atlantic  between 
himself  and  Betty  Mansfield.  A  tender,  whimsi- 
cal, chivalrous  madman,  under  the  velvet  a  curious 
hardness;  relentless.  And  yet  he  could  indirectly 
warn  Mansfield  of  the  danger  in  that  real-estate 
deal! 

Maddox  raked  his  beard  fiercely  as  he  hurried 
up  the  brick  path  to  the  office  entrance.  The 
office  was  vacant.  Good!  What  he  wanted  just 
now  was  a  pipe  in  the  study.  He  would  have  to 
mull  this  affair  over  and  approach  it  from  all 
angles.  But  he  had  scarcely  got  the  coal  going 
when  Nancy  came  in. 

"Did  you  order  that  awning?" 


178         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Awning?" 

"Heavens,  he's  forgotten!  Don't  you  know 
what  day  this  is?  " 

"Thursday." 

"What  date?" 

He  looked  at  his  calendar;  and  then  his  jaw 
dropped.  Her  birthday,  and  he  had  forgotten 
all  about  it!  He  jumped  up,  kissed  her,  and 
stormed  back  to  the  office  where  he  had  left  his 
hat  and  coat.  He  rushed  out  and  down  to  the 
chariot  and  went  clattering  off.  He  did  not  stop 
until  he  reached  the  shop  of  Bannister's  fashion- 
able jewellers.  He  was  a  rare  visitor,  but  they 
knew  him  personally. 

"Daniels,"  he  began,  a  little  out  of  breath, 
"this  is  my  daughter  Nancy's  birthday.  I  want  a 
trinket  tnat'll  make  her  forget  everything — even 
the  day  she  was  born,"  he  added,  humorously. 

"That  falls  in  nicely,"  replied  the  jeweller. 
"We  had  something  in  the  window  the  other  day 
that  attracted  her." 

"I  see,"  said  Maddox,  preparing  himself  for 
the  worst.  "Pearls.  Well,  let  me  see  it."  So 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  pills  and  pearls  looked 
exactly  alike.  He  would  have  to  trust  Daniels 
absolutely.  "How  much?"  he  asked,  after  a 
glance  at  the  string. 

"Twenty -five  hundred." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         179 

"Wrap  it  up — and  charge  it.  A  thousand 
December  first  and  the  balance  January  first. 

"Six  months,  if  you  like.  We  folks  make  you 
wait  often  enough." 

From  her  bedroom  window  Nancy  saw  her 
father's  return;  but  she  did  not  run  down  to  greet 
him.  She  was  wondering  what  would  happen 
when  Brand  and  Betty  Mansfield  saw  each  other 
across  the  table  at  dinner  that  evening. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

CATHEWE  returned  from  New  York  that 
morning.  He  was  not  aware  that  a  man, 
very  much  interested  in  his  affairs,  fol- 
lowed him  out  of  the  car  and  to  the  taxicab  stand. 
He  was  quietly  dressed,  pleasant  of  countenance, 
with  a  humorous  mouth  and  a  pair  of  oddly  hu- 
mourless eyes.  He  sent  a  cold,  level  glance  into  the 
middle  of  Cathewe's  back.  At  the  taxicab  stand 
he  waited  for  his  quarry  to  engage  a  vehicle  and 
drive  off;  and  then  he  selected  a  cab  for  himself 
and  directed  the  chauffeur  to  proceed  at  once  to 
Dunleigh  Mansfield's  on  Polygon  Hill.  There 
will  be  no  more  of  him.  He  comes  into  the  story 
and  goes  out  of  it,  comet-wise.  But  an  astronomer 
will  tell  you  that  the  aftermath  of  comets  is  dev- 
astation, annihilation,  and  obliteration.  How 
many  times,  though,  has  this  old  top  stood  wincing 
for  the  blow,  to  escape  by  a  hair — the  hair  of  the 
comet's  tail? 

Cathewe  had  an  appointment  at  the  office. 
The  appointee  was  not  a  willing  one;  he  was 
bowing  to  force.  When  he  arrived  his  air  was 
nonchalant,  except  for  the  restless  and  continuous 

180 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         181 

shifting  of  the  strong  cigar  from  one  corner  of  his 
mouth  to  the  other. 

"Well,  here  I  am,"  he  said,  impudently. 

"Sit  down,  Shafer.  Now,  exactly  why  did 
you,  a  member  of  the  city's  detective  force, 
enter  my  home  like  a  burglar  and  break  into  my 
safe?"  ' 

"Because  we  had  information  that  you  might 
be  some  kind  of  a  crook,"  was  the  ready  answer. 

"You  lie,  Shafer.  You  had  no  information. 
If  I  wanted  to,  I  could  nail  your  hide  on  my  door 
for  this.  I  want  the  truth." 

"Say  we  wanted  to  know  where  you  got  that 
little  four  hundred  thousand  that  always  stays 
young.  We  don't  like  the  smell  of  that  money." 

"That  is,  Mansfield  doesn't." 

"  You  got  to  guess  again." 

"Shafer,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  month  to 
find  a  new  job  out  of  town." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  sent  for  you  if  I  hadn't 
something  on  you,  as  you  would  say." 

"On  me?  Can  the  bluff,"  said  the  detective. 
"What  have  you  got  on  me?" 

"I'm  going  to  let  you  wonder  and  worry  about 
that.  One  month  from  to-day  I'll  lay  the  evidence 
on  the  chief's  desk;  and  he  won't  dare  back  away 
from  it,  even  if  it  does  come  from  me.  And,  as 


182         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

the  medium  says  out  of  the  tea-cups,  you'll  go  on 
a  journey." 

"Nothing  doing." 

"Mansfield  will  not  be  able  to  protect  you." 

"Mansfield?  Where  do  you  get  the  idea  that 
I'm  working  for  .Mansfield?" 

"One  month.  Shafer,  the  count  I  have  against 
you  I'll  leave  in  the  shadow;  but  there's  another 
I  can  talk  about.  One  of  your  jobs  is  that  violent 
pro-Germans  are  kept  moving;  and  there  are  a 
dozen  nests  of  them  in  and  about  town." 

"Now  you're  guessing." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool,  Shafer?  Do  you 
believe  I've  run  this  newspaper  for  three  years 
without  digging  into  things  myself?  One  month 
from  to-day." 

"I'll  be  here,  Johnny  on  the  spot,  waiting  to 
hear  that  evidence,"  replied  the  detective,  trucu- 
lently.. The  force  which  had  brought  him  here 
was  primarily  that  impelled  by  curiosity.  He 
knew  that  Cathewe  could  proceed  against  him 
technically  on  the  forced  entrance  to  the  Cathewe 
home;  but  he  also  knew  that  that  could  be  quashed 
before  it  got  to  court.  He  got  up. 

"Good  morning.  Thirty  days  ...  or 
five  years." 

"What's  that?" 

"Five   years.     The    evidence   I   have   against 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        183 

you  may  be  computed  in  so  much  prison  time. 
Good  morning." 

The  blood  boiled  up  in  the  detective's  face; 
but  the  cold  blue  eyes  looking  up  into  his  made 
him  reconsider  the  impulse  to  start  something 
of  a  purely  physical  nature. 

"All  right.    I'll  be  here  at  the  end  of  the  month." 

"Your  attitude  is  one  of  the  evils  I'm  trying 
to  eradicate,  Shafer.  You  consider  yourself  im- 
mune so  long  as  you  labour  under  the  aegis  of 
Mansfield's  power.  I'm  going  to  disabuse  your 
mind  in  thirty  days  from  now." 

Cathewe  swung  his  chair  around  to  his  desk 
and  began  to  write.  He  did  not  look  up  until 
the  door  slammed.  Then  he  leaned  back,  musing. 
But  this  musing  was  interrupted  shortly  by  the 
bell  of  the  telephone. 

"Hello!"  he  called. 

"This  Mr.  Cathewe?"  came  from  the  other  end 
of  the  wire. 

"How  do  you  do,  Nancy?" 

"You  told  me  to  call  you  up  this  morning," 
said  Nancy.  "You  are  coming  to  my  birthday 
dinner,  Brand  Cathewe?" 

"I  certainly  am." 

"What!  you  aren't  going  to  argue  and  try  to 
get  out  of  it?" 

"No." 


184         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Betty  Mansfield  will 
sit  across  from  you?" 

"In  spite — no,  because  of  that.  I'm  tired  of 
hiding  from  her,  Nancy.  She's  bound  to  know 
soon.  I  prefer  to  have  the  denouement  over  with." 

"After  all,  what  does  it  matter?"  A  pause. 
"Brand,  how  came  you  to  make  those  curious 
little  periods  in  your  manuscript?  " 

"Periods.  Oh,  I  see.  You  mean  the  cross. 
That  is  a  habit  of  newspaper  writers.  It  is  to 
indicate  to  the  compositor  that  the  sentence  ends 
there." 

"Ah!  I  was  just  curious.  You  write  such  a 
clear  and  beautiful  hand  that  the  little  crosses 
vexed  me.  Now  I  understand.  At  seven,  then, 
Mr.  Cottar!" 

The  house  telephone  at  the  Maddox  home  was 
hidden  conveniently  under  the  stairs.  Nancy 
hung  up  the  receiver,  but  she  remained  in  the  little 
chair  for  some  time,  motionless,  wide  of  eye  but 
sightless.  If  she  heard  the  door-bell  ring  it  was 
only  in  a  detached  way.  Nor  did  she  observe 
the  maid  as  she  passed.  It  was  only  when  she 
heard  Betty's  vibrant  voice  inquiring  for  her  that 
she  roused  herself.  How  oddly  heavy  her  body 
was! 

As  she  quitted  the  recess  under  the  stairs  and 
walked  smilingly  and  with  outstretched  hands 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        185 

toward  Betty,  she  wanted  to  sit  down  again  and 
laugh.  Over  what?  Human  inconsistencies;  over 
habit,  convention,  to  which  the  will  is  always 
more  or  less  supine.  The  natural  inclination  was 
to  run  to  her  room,  to  free  her  breast  of  the  stifling 
pressure.  Instead,  she  took  Betty  in  her  arms, 
kissed  her,  and  patted  her  shoulder,  because  that 
was  the  conventional  thing  to  do.  And  she  loved 
Betty.  Nobody  was  to  blame  for  the  horrible 
ache  in  her  heart.  It  was  just  there,  that  was  all. 

"Why,  Betty,  what's  the  matter?"  she  asked; 
for  it  came  to  her  suddenly,  as  through  a  break  in 
a  fog,  that  Betty  was  not  as  joyous  as  usual. 

Betty  did  not  answer,  but  led  Nancy  into  the 
drawing  room  with  its  freshly  waxed  floor  for 
dancing  that  evening.  She  drew  her  friend  down 
beside  her  on  the  lounge. 

"I  received  a  letter  this  morning,"  said  Betty. 

"A  letter?" 

"Don't  you  remember? " 

"You  mean  a  letter  from  that  shadow  man  you 
told  me  about  in  Washington?" 

"Yes.  I  ...  I  had  to  sit  down  when  I  saw 
that  envelope.  My  knees  wouldn't  hold  me  up." 

"Was  it  postmarked  New  York?" 

"Yes.  It  isn't  fair.  The  whole  thing  hasn't 
been  fair.  I  had  never  injured  any  one.  I 
wasn't  a  flirt.  The  letter,  Nancy,  was  good-bye." 


186         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

The  blood  thundered  into  Nancy's  throat. 
She  tried  to  speak  but  could  not.  Good-bye! 
He  had  bidden  Betty  good-bye !  He  had  given  her 
up!  Hope,  a  hope  of  which  she  felt  ashamed, 
tingled  every  nerve  in  her. 

"I  can't  understand,"  went  on  Betty.  "I 
am  rich  and  he  is  poor.  He  says  that  always  he 
will  go  on  loving  me.  He  asks  me  to  forgive  him 
if  I  have  in  any  way  been  annoyed.  Think  of  it! 
I  can't  go  to  him  and  say  that  money  doesn't 
matter  if  .  .  .  if  he  is  the  man  I  think  him 
to  be.  I  can't  tell  him  that  I  haven't  been  an- 
noyed. I  can't  tell  him  that  I  do  or  don't  love 
him.  Honestly,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I've 
just  created  a  man  the  like  of  which  never  existed, 
and  I've  fallen  in  love  with  that.  It  all  hurts. 
It  hasn't  been  fair.  And  now  he  says  good-bye! 
You're  the  only  friend  I've  got,  Nancy,  that  I 
could  come  to.  I  haven't  told  Daddy.  What  is 
the  use  in  telling  him?  I  can't  confront  him  with 
a  shadow.  All  the  detectives  in  the  world  could 
not  trace  the  writer  of  these  letters." 

"You'll  get  over  it,  dear,"  said  Nancy,  hating 
herself.  A  word  or  two,  and  the  riddle  would  be 
solved.  Generous  beyond  ordinary,  she  stifled 
the  impulse  to  take  that  page  of  manuscript  from 
her  bosom  and  spread  it  out  for  Betty  to  see. 
Once,  indeed,  her  hand  did  steal  up;  Jbut  stonily 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         187 

she  forced  it  down.  What  was  the  use  in  telling 
Betty?  said  Specious  Argument.  Wasn't  there 
the  width  of  the  poles  between  Betty  Mansfield 
and  this  shadow  man?  Hadn't  he  himself  made 
it  impossible? 

And  this  was  her  birthday !  To-night  she  would 
have  to  be  gay  with  happiness;  she  would  have  to 
laugh  and  dance  when  her  heart  was  breaking. 
She  took  Betty  in  her  arms  suddenly  and  fiercely 
and  held  her  there.  And  in  this  position  Maddox 
found  them. 

"Ha!"  he  boomed,  brushing  the  snow  from  his 
beard  and  throwing  his  hat  and  coat  on  a  chair. 
"Nancy,  do  you  realize  that  you  are  twenty -four 
— a  woman?" 

"Ami?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"What  is  a  woman?" 

"It  will  be  unethical  as  a  physician.     .     .     ." 

"Father!" 

"Well,  a  woman  becomes  a  woman  when  she 
becomes  curious  rather  than  inquisitive." 

"Did  I  used  to  be  inquisitive?" 

"Lord  love  you,  you  were  the  most  persistent 
human  interrogation  point  I  ever  met!" 

He  laughed,  motioned  the  girls  to  make  room 
for  him,  and  plumped  down  between  them  with 
another  of  his  "Has." 


188         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Father,  what  have  you  been  up  to?" 

"Up  to?  What  makes  you  think  I've  been  up 
to  something?" 

"You  always  act  like  this  when  you've  done 
something — foolish . ' ' 

"Betty,  do  you  ever  talk  to  your  father  like  that?  " 

"I'd  be  afraid  to,"  admitted  Betty. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  too  easy-going  with  this 
child.  Nancy,  exactly  what  is  being  foolish?" 

"Doing  something  you  ought  not  to.  Out  with 
it! "  She  caught  hold  of  one  of  his  ears. 

"Well,  I've  ordered  the  awning.  Happy  thought, 
too,  for  it  looks  like  a  good  snow-storm  coming. 
And  that  means  that  I'm  going  to  get  stuck  some 
night  and  have  to  walk  home." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  have  you  been 
doing  that's  foolish?" 

"Is  love  foolish?  "  he  countered. 

"You've  been  buying  me  a  birthday  gift!" 
She  kissed  him.  "And  you've  gone  away  beyond 
your  means." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  you're  always  giving  things  away: 
money,  clothes,  food.  If  mother  and  I  did  not 
watch  you,  the  house  wouldn't  have  any  rugs  or 
beds  in  it.  You're  the  dearest,  kindest  man  in  the 
world !  Now,  what  is  it  that  I've  got  to  take  back 
to  the  jewellers?  " 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         189 

"You  won't  take  this  back,  Nancy.  You 
couldn't.  You're  human.  Shut  your  eyes,  the 
both  of  you,  and  don't  you  open  them  until  I  say 
so." 

Both  girls  covered  their  eyes  with  their  palms. 
Miserable  and  unhappy,  both  of  them,  playing 
the  comedy  out  because  they  loved  the  actor. 

"Open!  "he  cried. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  cried  Nancy,  as  she  saw  the 
lovely  string  of  pearls. 

"Beautiful!"  cried  Betty. 

Thought  the  father:  "That'll  take  her  mind 
off  it  for  awhile,  anyhow." 

Thought  Nancy:  "He's  right.  I  never  could 
take  them  back.  And  I  mustn't  let  him  suspect." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

CUB  reporters  are  a  race  apart.  Say/for  a 
year;  then  they  become  reporters,  or  they 
return  to  private  life.  They  carry  upon 
their  beardless  countenances  an  astute  look — 
the  keen  gaze  of  Vidocq  and  the  stern  mouth  of 
Holmes.  In  street-cars,  in  theatres,  in  restaurants, 
they  "listen  in"  whenever  they  have  the  chance. 
You  never  can  tell  when  a  great  piece  of  news  is 
going  to  break.  They  should,  however,  be 
properly  designated  as  butt-reporters.  For  they 
are  continually  the  butts  in  the  editorial  rooms. 
Everybody  takes  a  whack  at  them,  experimentally. 
Sardonic  practical  jokes  are  played  upon  them. 
Their  assignments  are  often  wild-goose  chases, 
merely  to  keep  them  busy  and  out  of  the  office. 

At  home  and  abroad — everywhere  except  in  the 
editorial  rooms — he  is  a  journalist.  In  France 
that  word  carries  genuine  dignity;  here  in  America 
the  regulars  laugh  at  it.  He  becomes  fascinating 
to  the  young  girls.  The  power  of  the  press !  And 
when  he  takes  them  to  the  theatre  on  passes  he 
inspires  them  with  the  same  awe  that  the  Matter- 
horn  inspires  in  the  Bedouin,  happen  the  Bedouin 

190 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        191 

got  to  Zermatt.  Here  is  a  great  human  mystery. 
The  elation  of  getting  somewhere  on  a  pass  has 
never  responded  to  analysis  except  on  the  assump- 
tion that  something  for  nothing  is  far  more  de- 
sirable than  something  for  something. 

Curious  field  of  endeavour,  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness. An  editor  may  have  to  advertise  for  com- 
positors, type-setters,  or  a  printer's  devil,  but  a 
mere  flicker  of  the  eyebrow  will  bring  a  thousand 
aspirants  for  one  reportorial  job.  The  rewards 
are  nil.  There  isn't  any  future  if  you  stick  to  the 
game.  There  is  yet  to  be  found  a  father  who  will, 
without  protest,  permit  his  son  to  become  a  news- 
paper man. 

Why  this  legion  eternally  demanding  admit- 
tance to  a  craft  which  never  has  and  never  will  pay 
commensurately?  It  is  the  primordial  instinct  of 
the  pioneer  who  finds  himself  without  frontiers; 
it  is  the  bane  of  the  wandering  foot;  it  is  the 
hatred  of  routine.  Take  the  war  correspondent, 
the  foreign  correspondent,  the  star  reporter;  daily 
the  desk  is  the  same,  but  the  task  is  new.  Each 
day  is  not  merely  another  day;  it  is  a  different  day. 
What  are  mere  wages  set  against  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  new  jobs?  That  is  the  lure;  and 
certain  souls  will  always  respond  to  it. 

The  cub  reporter  on  the  Bannister  Morning 
Herald  was  exactly  like  all  cub  reporters.  He 


192         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

considered  Cathewe  the  greatest  man  in  the 
world,  and  the  city-editor  the  worst.  Cathewe 
knew  a  man  when  he  saw  one;  the  city-editor  did 
not.  His  first  assignment  had  been  a  joke.  He 
had  been  sent  out  to  one  of  the  cemeteries  to 
make  note  of  any  improvements;  and  he  had  re- 
turned with  half  a  column  describing  the  recent 
mausoleums.  He  was  still  mystified  because  the 
manuscript  had  not  yet  been  typed.  He  was  in- 
formed that  it  was  being  held  against  a  dull  day. 

Another  time — and  this  was  recently — he  had 
been  sent  up  to  interview  Mansfield  regarding  the 
rumour  that  he  was  going  to  sell  out  to  Schwab. 
He  had  succeeded  in  brushing  by  the  solemn  but- 
ler. Beyond,  by  the  stairs,  he  had  seen  a  beautiful 
young  woman. 

"I  should  like  to  see  Mr.  Mansfield.  I  am  a 
reporter  from  the  Herald.  " 

"Indeed!"  The  ravishing  beauty  had  smiled. 
An  old-timer,  witnessing  that  smile,  would  have 
turned  tail  at  once. 

"He  is  in  his  study.  Follow  me.  .  .  • 
Daddy,  here  is  a  reporter  from  the  Herald" 

"  Of  all  the  damnable  impudence ! " 

Before  the  cub  could  telegraph  to  his  pedal  ex- 
tremities the  way  out,  a  hand  fell  upon  his  collar 
and  he  was  Turkey-trotted  out  of  the  door  and 
half  way  to  the  street. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        193 

"Get  anything?"  the  city -editor  had  inquired 
upon  his  cub's  return. 

"  No.    Mansfield  kicked  me  out." 

"Uh-huh." 

The  cub  did  not  suspect  the  city -editor;  but 
from  then  on  he  had  it  in  for  the  Mansfields.  Thus 
he  becomes  a  kind  of  God  in  the  car.  Without 
the  cub's  rancour  this  tale  might  have  had  a 
different  ending. 

On  the  same  morning  that  Cathewe  arrived  from 
New  York,  the  cub  got  down  before  lunch  and 
went  into  the  file  room.  There  are  always  at 
least  two  files  in  an  editorial  room :  one  to  preserve 
intact  and  one  for  the  convenience  of  reporters 
who  sometimes  have  to  cut  out  bits  in  order  to 
preserve  the  continuity  of  follow-up  stories. 

The  cub,  using  his  penknife — for  only  editors  use 
scissors — hacked  out  every  editorial  and  news  story 
he  could  find  relating  to  Mansfield.  When  this  task 
was  completed  he  put  them  into  a  manila  envelope, 
sealed  and  stamped  it,  and  carried  it  over  to  the  post- 
office,  where  he  dropped  it  into  the  local  mail-slot. 

But  the  moment  that  envelope  vanished  from 
sight  his  rancour  and  satisfaction  turned  their 
obverse  sides,  as  it  were,  and  he  suddenly  saw 
himself  contemptible.  The  girl  wasn't  to  blame. 
The  rumour  might  be  true,  that  she  was  oblivious 
to  certain  phases  of  her  father's  character. 


194        The  Man  With  Three  Names 

He  quitted  the  postoffice  for  the  street,  pushed 
up  his  collar,  for  it  was  beginning  to  snow,  and 
walked  half  a  block.  There  was  no  use  ar- 
guing; he  would  have  to  get  that  letter  back. 
He  turned  and  trotted  back  to  the  postoffice,  en- 
tering one  of  the  rear  doors.  He  was  more  or  less 
familiar  to  the  night  shift;  for  frequently  he  was 
sent  over  to  get  the  one  o'clock  night  mail  which 
carried  the  last  of  the  country  news  stuff;  and  to 
save  time  the  clerk  would  give  it  to  him  out  of 
the  mailbag.  But  he  saw  no  familiar  face  this 
morning.  Still,  he  hailed  a  clerk  who  approached 
the  cage. 

"My  name  is  White,  of  the  Herald.  I  want  to 
get  a  letter  I  just  dropped  in  the  slot." 

"Want  to  stamp  it?" 

"No;  it's  stamped.  But  I  don't  want  it  to  go  to 
the  addressee.  Changed  my  mind." 

"Local?" 

"Yes." 

"  Who's  it  addressed  to?  " 

"Miss  Mansfield." 

The  clerk  moved  off  to  consult  some  higher 
authority  and  finally  returned  with  a  negative 
shake  of  the  head. 

"  Can't  be  done.     It'll  have  to  go  through." 

"But  I've  got  to  have  it ! " 

"Well,  there's  only  one  way  now.     Telephone 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        195 

Miss  Mansfield  to  return  it  unopened.'*  The 
clerk  went  back  to  his  pouches. 

The  cub  saw  that  the  case  was  hopeless.  It 
was  likely  that  he  would  give  his  name  and  ad- 
dress to  Miss  Mansfield!  Cathewe  would  hear 
what  he  had  done  and  fire  him.  Utterly  miser- 
able, he  turned  into  a  side-street  and  sought  a 
favourite  haunt  of  his — a  buffet-saloon.  He  or- 
dered a  plate  of  hash  and  a  cup  of  coffee  and  was 
striving  to  swallow  without  choking  when  his 
"listening  in"  faculties  were  aroused  by  a  snatch 
of  conversation  in  the  next  booth. 

"To-night  .  .  .  guard  at  the  south  gate 
.  .  .  more  isolated." 

He  caught  no  complete  sentence;  only  a  word 
here  and  there.  But  he  possessed  the  true  in- 
stincts of  the  news-getter  and  was  able  to  put  two 
and  two  together.  He  got  up,  took  his  check,  and 
walked  by  the  next  booth.  He  sent  a  quick, 
photographic  glance  into  it,  and  moved  on  toward 
the  cashier's  desk.  He  paid  the  check  and  went 
out.  Once  in  the  street  he  made  for  the  police- 
station  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him.  He 
dashed  into  the  day-captain's  office.  He  made  a 
bad  beginning.  He  introduced  himself  and  his 
paper. 

"Huh!     Well,  whaddayuh  want?" 

"Overheard  some  Germans  in  Cahill's  talking 


196         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

about  blowing  up  something  to-night.  They're 
there  yet.  Can  you  give  me  a  couple  of  men?" 

"On  your  way!     Everybody's  seeing  things." 

"You  refuse?" 

"  Clear  out "— belligerently .  "  The  Herald  ain't 
too  popular  in  here.  Mog!" 

"All  right,"  shot  back  the  cub,  his  voice  unsteady. 
"But  if  anything  does  blow  up,  you'll  get  yours!" 

There  followed  a  scuffle  of  feet,  but  the  cub  was 
too  agile  for  the  paunchy  police  captain.  He 
sensed,  however,  that  this  hasty  departure  had  all 
the  ear-marks  of  Mary  Anderson's  farewell  to  the 
public.  He  would  never  be  a  police  reporter  on 
the  Herald,  not  while  this  regime  was  in  power. 
Moreover,  they'd  have  him  on  the  carpet  at  the 
office  for  adding  another  brick  to  the  hod  of  the 
regular  man.  On  the  other  hand,  if  anything  did 
happen — anything  blew  up — Cathewe  would  see 
to  it  that  there  would  be  a  shake-up  in  the  local 
police  department  that  would  get  New  York  com- 
ment. Of  course,  he  did  not  hope  something 
would  blow  up. 

He  ran  back  to  Cahill's,  and  the  blood  jumped 
into  his  throat  when  he  observed  that  the  men  had 
not  yet  gone.  Thrilled,  he  sat  down  and  ordered 
another  cup  of  coffee.  He  would  trail  these  chaps; 
and  trail  them  he  did.  North,  east,  south,  and 
west,  through  this  alley  and  that,  toward  the 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        197 

country,  back  to  town,  off  for  the  railway  yard  and 
back  to  Cahill's.  He  was  only  eighteen.  How 
was  he  to  know  that  the  men  had  set  a  trap  for 
him  and  he  had  walked  feverishly  into  it? 

They  kept  him  there  at  CahilFs  until  nine 
o'clock  that  night.  Once  they  lost  sight  of  him; 
but  as  he  came  out  of  the  washroom,  they  sighed 
relievedly.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  though,  he  had 
slipped  through  the  alley  window  and  into  the 
adjacent  tailor-shop  from  where  he  had  telephoned 
the  office  that  he  was  trailing  three  German  spies 
and  wouldn't  report  for  his  assignment. 

And  what  did  they  do  in  the  Herald  office? 
Laughed.  Why  not?  It  was  only  the  cub,  off  on 
one  of  his  wild-goose  chases. 

At  nine  the  men  departed,  and  the  cub  began 
his  trailing  again.  This  time  there  were  no  tor- 
tuous windings.  The  men  headed  directly  to- 
ward the  railway  yard,  and  the  cub  decided  that 
they  were  going  to  wreck  the  Mansfield  steel  mills. 

There  was  a  deal  of  freight  movement.  Night- 
time there  generally  is.  And  there  were  many 
broken  strings  of  empties  to  cut  across.  Once  he 
regretted  he  hadn't  asked  for  a  partner  in  this 
enterprise. 

Suddenly  his  men  vanished.  The  boy  fell  into 
a  dog-trot  to  the  end  of  a  string  of  empties.  As  he 
passed  the  last  car,  the  sky  fell  out.  When  he 


198         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

came  to  his  senses  he  was  both  gagged  and  bound. 
But  he  could  see  the  cold,  starry  sky  above  him. 
It  had  stopped  snowing  earlier  in  the  evening. 
He  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  coal-car,  which  might 
be  hauled  to  the  main  line  at  any  moment.  In 
that  event,  he  would  breakfast  somewhere  around 
Scran  ton. 

He  began  to  work  at  his  wrists,  remembering  a 
performer  at  the  vaudeville.  By  ceaseless  strain- 
ing and  relaxing  of  the  muscles  the  rope  was  des- 
tined to  loosen  ever  so  little;  and  ever  so  little  is 
always  a  wedge. 

It  was  midnight  when  he  climbed  the  stairs  to 
the  editorial  rooms.  His  face  and  hands  were 
streaked  with  blood  and  coal-dust:  he  was  a  sar- 
torial as  well  as  a  physical  wreck.  The  thing  that 
kept  him  on  his  feet  was  the  knowledge  that  his 
hunch  had  been  a  good  one.  Instinctively,  he 
staggered  toward  Cathewe's  door — open  as  usual — 
because  he  knew  that  the  chief  would  not  laugh  at 
him. 

Groggy  as  he  was,  he  saw  that  something  was 
wrong  with  the  chief.  On  such  a  night  he  ought 
to  be  at  the  desk  in  the  composing  room,  with  the 
night  editor.  The  city  room,  which  he  had  avoided, 
was  noisy  enough :  the  clicking  of  typewriters,  the 
bawling  of  "Copy!"  and  the  scurrying  of  feet,  the 
coming  and  going  of  messenger  boys.  Yes,  that 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        199 

room  was  normal.  But  what  was  the  matter 
with  the  chief? — friend  of  his  been  killed?  Dress- 
suit;  daubs  of  printer's  ink  on  the  bosom  of  the 
shirt,  the  white  tie  awry,  exposing  the  collar-but- 
ton. But  it  wasn't  these  things;  it  was  the  peculiar 
attitude  of  the  chief,  who  was  dynamite  on  nights 
when  a  big  piece  of  news  "broke."  Why  was  he 
sitting  there  like  that,  as  if  it  were  Sunday  after- 
noon, when  the  whole  town  was  in  an  uproar? 
Staring  at  the  wall  like  that,  his  eyes  wide  and 
expressionless.  .  .  .  Had  he  lost  somebody? 
The  room  suddenly  began  to  roll. 

"Chief!"  began  the  boy,  rocking  on  his  heels. 
"They  .  .  .  got  me!  ...  I  was  a  boob 
to  try  it  a  .  .  .  alone!  But  I  thought  .  .  . 
If  I  reported  here,  you'd  laugh  or  send  .  .  . 
somebody  else.  Anyhow,  I  tried.  .  .  ." 

Cathewe  turned  his  head,  and  sprang  to  his 
feet  just  in  time  to  catch  the  boy  as  he  pitched 
forward. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

IT  HAD  been  agreed  between  Betty  and  her 
father  that,  whenever  she  was  to  spend  the 
evening  out,  she  should  first  pass  in  review 
before  him.  So  promptly  at  six-thirty  she 
presented  herself.  Her  gown  was  of  turquoise 
taffeta,  rather  severe  in  its  simplicity,  but  entranc- 
ing her  style  of  beauty.  She  wore  no  jewellery  of 
any  kind,  not  even  a  ring.  She  swung  on  her  toes 
in  a  kind  of  pirouette. 

"Like  me?" 

"Betty,  you're  what  the  English  call  ripping!" 

"I'm  glad  somebody  thinks  so." 

"Somebody!  No  normal  human  eye  could 
resist  you.  If  I  were  a  young  man  and  you  were 
someone  else's  daughter,  I'd  be  after  you  morning, 
noon,  and  night.  I'd  turn  over  empires  and  all 
that,  but  I'd  win  you." 

"Young  men  do  not  love  like  that  any  more, 
Daddy.  They  are  timid.  There  are  no  more 
Lochinvars." 

"Young  woman,  you  say  that  as  if  you'd  been 
trying  some  of  them  out."  He  advanced  toward 
her  with  mock  sternness  and  caught  her  by  the  el- 
goo 


TJie  Man  With  Three  Names        201 

bows.  "You  seem  so  different  from  the  run  of 
girls,  that  I've  never  contemplated  your  being  in 
love  with  any  one." 

"I  am  not  attractive,  then — not  worth  a  fight?" 

He  stared  at  her  quizzically.  "There's  some- 
thing out  of  kilter  with  that  smile,  Betty.  What's 
happened?" 

"Nothing."  An  all-embracing  word,  both 
truthful  and  equivocal.  "The  truth  is,  there  is 
too  much  money.  The  poor  young  man  is  afraid 
of  me;  and  the  rich  man  is  too  old;  and  I  shall  be  an 
old  maid." 

"That's  nonsense!  You  are  free,  Honey,  to 
marry  when  you  love.  I  owe  at  least  that  much  to 
you.  I  don't  believe  a  fortune-hunter  will  ever 
trap  you.  You  have  the  gift — I  don't  know  where 
you  got  it — of  seeing  through  people  at  a  glance. 
Did  you  leave  a  sweetheart  back  there  in  France?  " 
— gravely. 

"Only  such  as  school-girls  dream  of;  nothing 
that  was  in  flesh  and  blood.  I'm  glad  you  like 
the  dress." 

"I  say,  Betty,  I  almost  forgot  to  tell  you.  I've 
got  that  fellow  Cathewe  at  last,  right  in  the  hollow 
of  my  hand;  and  he  is  going  to  fade  away  from 
Bannister  like  those  people  in  the  movies.  I've 
got  him!" 

"And  so  have  I,  Daddy." 


202         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"  What?  "  —nonplussed. 

"Yes.  I've  got  him,  too,  but  he  doesn't  know 

it.  And  when  the  hour  comes She  extended 

a  shapely  hand,  palm  upward,  which  suddenly 
became  rigid  and  contorted.  Slowly  the  fingers 
closed.  "Just  like  that." 

"What  the  dickens  have  you  been  up  to?"  he 
demanded. 

"I  haven't  the  time  now  to  discuss  it;  but  to- 
morrow we'll  exchange  views  on  the  subject.  I'm 
in  a  hurry.  I  don't  want  to  spoil  Nancy's  dinner 
by  arriving  like  a  petted  prima  donna — late.  You 
dropped  an  idea  one  day,  and  I  made  use  of  it. 
That's  all.  You'll  laugh  when  I  tell  you .  By-by !" 

"Wait  a  moment.  I've  got  something  for  you 
to  take  to  Nancy." 

"But  I'm  taking  her  something." 

"Well,  you  can  take  her  this  star-sapphire  as  my 
share.  If  the  ring  doesn't  fit,  she  can  have  it 
reduced." 

"Daddy,  it's  a  beauty.  But  I  forgot.  The 
doctor  brought  her  up  a  pearl  necklace  this  morning. 
I  don't  like  to  ask  questions,  but  is  Doctor  Maddox 
rich?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!  He  makes  about  fifteen 
thousand  a  year  and  gives  away  half  of  that.  I 
daresay  his  wife  and  Nancy  have  to  watch  him  all 
the  time.  But  I  like  that  man.  He's  honesty  in 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        203 

the  superlative.    A  pearl  necklace,  eh?    It  will  take 
him  a  year  to  pay  for  it.     I  say ! " 

"What?" 

"Supposing  you  speak  to  him  to-night  and  tell 
him  I  want  to  take  over  his  charities,  little  and 
big,  for  a  year?" 

.  "Daddy,  that  is  a  beautiful  thought;  but  I  know 
the  doctor.  He  might  accept  it,  but  only  to  double 
his  efforts.  Financially,  he  would  be  just  as  badly 
off.  But  I  must  be  going ! " 

She  kissed  him  and  sped  to  the  door,  where  she 
poised  for  a  second.  What  a  handsome  man  he 
was,  this  Daddy  of  hers !  In  after  days  she  always 
thanked  God  for  that  glance:  for  she  never  saw  her 
father's  face  like  that  again. 

Mansfield  selected  a  cigar — forgetting  his  own 
dinner  was  in  the  process  of  making — and  blew  a 
cloud  above  his  head.  Cathewe  out  of  the  way 
before  Betty  got  a  glimmer  of  the  truth!  A  man 
by  the  name  of  Dunleigh  Mansfield  was  in  luck. 
But  what  the  dickens  had  the  child  discovered 
concerning  Cathewe,  Cathewe  the  impeccable,  at 
least  here  in  Bannister?  What  had  she  discovered 
that  the  local  police  force  could  not?  The  hollow 
of  her  hand,  she  had  said.  She  was  her  father's 
daughter. 

Cathewe,  the  working  man's  friend!  Cathewe, 
the  protector  of  the  poor!  Cathewe,  the  stern 


204         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

and  visionary  Rienzi!  March  weather.  He  had 
come  roaring  into  Bannister  like  a  lion,  and  he 
would  depart  with  the  meekness  of  a  shorn  lamb. 
That  dear,  tender-hearted  public!  Having  made 
a*false  God,  the  public  would  turn  and  rend  it, 
shatter  and  scatter  it.  Cathewe,  the  son  of  Digby 
Hallowell! 

That  detective  was  clever.  He  had  worked 
upon  the  simplest  line  imaginable :  taken  Cathewe's 
photograph  and  gone  the  rounds  of  the  New  York 
banks,  and  day  before  yesterday  a  teller  and  a 
cashier  had  recognized  it.  The  son  of  Digby 
Hallowell! 

When  the  butler  came  in  to  announce  dinner, 
he  received  a  shock.  His  employer,  hitherto  the 
most  dignified  man  he  had  ever  served,  thwacked 
him  on  the  shoulder  in  good  fellowship,  an  act  of 
condescension  positively  unknown  in  this  house. 

"And  if  that  steak  isn't  done  just  right,  I'll 
have  your  hide  on  the  wall  alongside  Brandon 
Cathewe's!" 

"It  is  done  to  a  turn,  sir." 

"Let  Sandy  have  the  bone  when  I'm  through 
with  it.  There's  a  celebration  going  on  in  these 
diggings  to-night." 

"Yes,  sir.     Might  I  suggest.     .     .     ." 

"A  drop  of  that  old  Madeira?  Very  well,  to- 
night." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        205 

When  the  dinner  came  to  the  coffee  and  cigarr 
the  butler  withdrew,  and  Mansfield  sloped  com- 
fortably in  his  chair. 

There  is  magic  in  coffee  and  tobacco.  The 
stimulant  is  negatived  by  the  narcotic;  the 
thinking  machine  moves  smoothly.  Berry  and 
Weed:  out  of  these  two,  great  empires  have  had 
their  initial  impetus — empires  of  peoples,  of 
moneys,  of  ideas.  So  there  came  into  Mansfield's 
head  a  plan  for  the  reconstruction  of  Bannister, 
through  Betty.  Whatever  she  wanted  done  was 
as  good  as  accomplished.  But  he  must  work  out 
these  ends  in  his  own  way,  subtly.  One  thing,  of 
course,  was  utterly  impossible,  and  that  was 
directness.  He  would  have  to  work  out  the  plan  by 
labyrinthian  methods.  Or  there  might  be  a  local 
revolt.  To  give  the  girl  a  free  hand,  without 
creating  a  revolution.  Somehow  that  appealed 
to  his  sporting  blood.  Cathewe  out  of  the  way, 
the  spark  in  the  powder-room  would  be  ex- 
tinguished. 

But  what  did  the  child  mean  when  she  said  she 
had  the  man  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand?  Well,  that 
puzzle  would  be  explained  away  in  the  morning. 
She  was  her  father's  daughter.  Under  that  grace 
of  form,  under  that  gentle  tenderness  and  charity 
there  was  reinforcement  of  steel. 

Cathewe. 


206         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Mansfield  quitted  the  dining  room  and  sought 
his  study  again.  He  unlocked  a  drawer  and  pulled 
out  many  letters,  letters  from  his  henchmen.  He 
tore  them  up  and  tossed  them  into  the  fire.  There 
was  always  the  possibility  of  dying,  and  he  did  not 
want  Betty  to  know  of  certain  shades  even  after 
his  death.  He  tried  to  analyze  this  desire,  but 
he  came  up  against  that  same  wall  which  con- 
fronted human  thought  since  the  day  one.  That 
he  should  want  Betty  to  respect  his  memory!  i 
"  Cathewe. 

He  walked  over  to  a  shelf  and  took  down  Gray's 
Elegy.  .  .  . 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

What  would  it  matter  to  Dunleigh  Mansfield, 
once  out  of  the  coil,  whether  Betty  respected  his 
memory  or  not?  Or  was  it  that  he  did  not  want 
the  reverse  side  of  his  life  to  spoil  her  faith,  to  dis- 
illusion her?  There  would  be  long  years  before 
her,  and  he  was  moving  on  toward  the  aisle  of 
cypress.  .  .  „  "the  dull  cold  ear  of  death!" 
A  wish  that  she  might  be  happy  after  he  was  gone. 
Was  that  it? 

Cathewe.    He  found  that  he  could  not  get  away 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        207 

from  that  name.  It  sought  him  out  like  a  search- 
light, persistently.  The  futility  of  self -lies!  The 
boy  was  honest.  He  had  played  the  game 
honestly.  He  had  not  attacked  the  legality  of 
Dunleigh  Mansfield's  acts;  he  had  criticised  the 
patent  immorality  of  them.  Under  his  hand  lay 
evidence  which  would  rum  Cathewe  and  turn  him 
forth  as  an  outcast.  An  hour  gone  he  would  have 
used  this  evidence  joyfully;  now  he  doddered. 
Why?  Because  eventually  Betty  would  find  that 
out  also :  that  Cathewe  himself  was  an  honourable 
man. 

All  at  once  Mansfield  knew  what  he  needed — the 
open.  So  he  put  on  his  cap  and  heavy  coat  and 
went  out  to  the  garage  for  the  roadster.  He 
would  drive  out  to  the  munitions  works  and  have 
a  look  at  the  pipe-line  which  was  in  progress  and 
upon  which  men  were  even  now  toiling  in  night- 
shifts.  Out  there  he  would  decide  the  fate  of  his 
enemy,  this  son  of  Digby  Hallo  well. 

But  fate  itself  had  much  in  store  for  Dunleigh 
Mansfield  this  night. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

GATHEWE  was  anxious  to  have  a  little 
chat  with  Nancy  before  her  guests  began 
to  arrive.  He  had  telephoned  her  to  this 
effect,  and  she  had  made  the  appointment  at  half 
after  six.  This  meant,  of  course,  a  somewhat 
hurried  toilet.  But  hollyhocks  have  a  charm  of 
their  own,  impervious  to  destruction.  There  was 
a  little  lock  of  hah*  over  one  ear.  Nancy  had  not 
the  time  to  tuck  it  in.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  little 
more  talc  on  one  pretty  shoulder  than  on  the  other. 
She  was  a  trifle  breathless,  too,  when  she  came  into 
the  library  to  greet  him.  Nancy  dressed  herself. 

"  George  Cottar,  what  in  the  world  have  you  to 
say  to  me  that's  more  important  than  my  new 
dress?" 

"Nancy,  you  would  look  just  as  charming  to  me 
in  a  gingham  apron,  such  as  you  wear  when  you 
rake  the  leaves.  And  if  I  were  twenty  .  .  ." 

"Instead  of     .     .     .     ?" 

"  Thirty-one,  I'd  be  tempted  to  kiss  your  cheek." 

"And  what  difference  do  eleven  years  make?" 
demanded  Nancy,  a  bitter  mischief  pervading  her. 

"It  is  the  age  of  compromise;  so  I  will  kiss  your 

208 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        209 

hand  instead  and  wish  you  many  happy  birth- 
days." 

Nancy  gazed  down  upon  his  head  as  his  lips 
lightly  touched  her  hand.  The  look  in  her  eyes, 
could  he  have  seen  it,  would  have  made  her  father 
very  unhappy.  But  in  Nancy's  blood  was  the 
leaven  of  Spartan  courage.  She  did  not  release 
his  hand,  but  led  him  over  to  the  divan. 

"Brand,  do  you  realize  that  this  is  the  first  time 
I've  ever  seen  you  in  the  'mournful  parapher- 
nalia of  a  gentleman  in  the  evening?'  That's  one 
of  your  own  lines." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  waiter,  or  what? " 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  really  been  accustomed 
to  wearing  it."  She  laughed.  "By  the  way,  I 
want  to  thank  you  for  those  beautiful  books. 
Now,  what  is  it  you  wish  to  see  me  about?  " 

Her  fingers  began  absently  to  stray  across  her 
hair.  Deftly  they  trapped  the  wayward  lock  and 
tucked  it  in,  found  a  loose  hairpin  and  pressed  it 
into  place.  A  pat  here  and  another  there,  then 
she  dropped  her  hands  to  her  lap.  Into  his  head 
came  the  thought  that  a  woman  was  never  more 
attractive  than  when  engaged  in  this  artless  pas- 
time. 

A  confession  by  one  who  knows.  The  observ- 
ing eye  and  trained  ear  of  the  novelist  are  stage 
properties  of  the  novelist.  In  actual  life  they  are 


210         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

quite  as  dense  as  any  normal  man's  where  a  woman 
is  concerned.  Thus,  Nancy's  voice  and  expression 
conveyed  nothing  to  Cathewe.  She  was  Nancy,  a 
good  comrade,  to  whom  he  had  come  in  trouble. 

"Well?  "she  said. 

"I  come  to  you  because  you  are  my  friend, 
Nancy.  I  have  very  few.  I've  rather  avoided 
friendships  because  I  knew  that  it  was  always 
possible  to  lose  them." 

"I  am  and  always  will  be  your  friend,  Brand." 

There  was  a  little  stretch  of  silence.  He  bent 
toward  his  knees  and  picked  out  a  pattern  in  the 
rug  to  study. 

"You've  been  puzzled  regarding  my  conduct  in 
relation  to  Miss  Mansfield.  Haven't  you?  " 

"In  a  sense.  I  can't  help  wondering  what  mat- 
tered it  if  she  did  know  who  you  were." 

"Did  you  ever  enter  a  familiar  room  in  the  dark, 
to  find  all  the  furniture  set  in  new  places?  Men- 
tally, that  is  my  condition.  No  matter  which 
way  I  move,  I  bark  my  shins.  I  am  figuratively 
worse  off  than  if  I  were  in  a  totally  strange  room. 
My  caution  would  help  me  there.  I  came  to 
Bannister  upon  a  mad  adventure.  Romance!  It 
is  the  strongest  thing  in  me,  and  I  have  to  fight  it 
ceaselessly.  An  inheritance  from  my  mother. 
She  finds  articulation  in  her  music.  I  cannot  find 
articulation  in  my  work  because  I  am  ambitious 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        211 

to  write  human,  not  fairy,  stories.  So  when  the 
urge  comes  I  plunge  into  the  nearest  maze,  and 
bump  and  blunder  through.  I  am  in  a  maze  now 
which  apparently  offers  no  exit.  A  series  of  ironies, 
some  blunt,  some  sharp;  that  is  life." 

"Yes.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me  that  you  came 
here  because  you'd  fallen  in  love  with  Betty  .  .  . 
somewhere  else?" 

He  raised  his  head  sharply.  "Have  I  worn  my 
heart  on  my  sleeve?" 

"Perhaps  it  was  your  effort  to  hide  it." 

"I  didn't  suspect  you  were  so  keen,  Nancy. 
But  you've  hit  upon  the  truth.  Mansfield  told 
me  I  might  pay  court  to  his  daughter  upon  the 
condition  that  I  come  to  Bannister  and  become  a 
force.  He  made  this  condition  in  jest,  but  I 
accepted  it  in  earnest.  I  do  these  mad  things 
because  one  day  I  found  myself  in  the  valley  of 
tragedy,  and  like  a  trapped  animal  I  am  always 
desperately  trying  to  find  some  way  out.  And  I 
found  it  here  in  Bannister,  odd  as  that  may  sound. 
I  shan't  go  into  those  details  now;  some  future 
date,  perhaps." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  help  you?"  She  reached 
over  and  laid  her  hand  on  his.  "As  between  two 
friends?" 

"Nothing  but  magic  or  black  art  could  help  me, 
Nancy." 


The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  replied,  recalling  that 
peculiar  punctuation  mark  in  his  manuscript. 

"It  is  not  possible,  Nancy.  I  came  here  be- 
cause I  loved  her,  at  first  sight,  to  find  myself 
hoist  'twixt  the  devil  and  the  deep  blue  sea.  I 
had  to  fight  her  father;  I  had  elected  a  certain  way 
logo." 

"  'Loved  I  not  honour  more,' "  quoted  Nancy, 
softly.  "  Or  is  it  that  you  fear  your  fate  too  much?" 

"You  are  making  fun  of  me?" 

"No,  Brand.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  understand. 
A  miracle  must  happen." 

"And  there  ain't  no  sech  animal.  The  power  of 
Mansfield's  will  had  lain  upon  this  town  until  it 
was  pretty  bad  in  spots.  So  I  undertook  to 
hammer  into  the  public  mind  just  how  baneful  his 
influence  was.  I  don't  suppose  he  himself  realized 
to  what  depth  he  had  fallen.  I  didn't  awaken  him. 
He  has  given  me  thunder  for  thunder.  But  con- 
tact with  the  beautiful  mind  of  his  daughter 
softened  him  gradually;  and  your  father  tells  me 
that  now  Mansfield  loves  his  daughter.  And  she 
is  redeeming  him.  A  very  unusual  redemption  it 
is.  He  can't  go  directly;  it  is  no  longer  in  the 
nature  of  the  man  to  approach  anything  directly. 
He  is  like  a  man  who  closes  his  eyes  after  putting 
out  the  lamp — so  he  won't  see  the  dark!  On  her 
side  she  believes  him  to  be  abused,  maligned.  To 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        213 

her  I  am  a  monger  of  lies,  a  political  demagogue. 
No  one  dares  tell  her  the  truth;  and  I  doubt  if  she 
has  seen  the  Herald  half  a  dozen  times.  I  know 
positively  that  I  have  never  been  pointed  out  to 
her  .  .  .  as  I  shall  be  presently.  I'm  not 
going  to  hide  any  longer.  So  I  have  laid  the 
dream  away." 

Nancy's  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  The 
buoyancy  of  hope!  But  she  knew  that  there  was 
a  miracle  close  at  hand.  It  rested  upon  her  own 
lips.  The  one  man,  and  she  must  give  him  to 
another!  Her  birthday  party!  And  yet  she 
knew  that  she  would  go  serenely  through  it  all 
because  she  loved  them  both.  Upon  her  word 
rested  the  happiness  of  two  people  and  the  misery 
of  a  third.  Why  be  silent  and  render  all  three 
miserable? 

"A  queer  mess  all  around.  And  the  odd  part  of 
it  is,  I  don't  want  her  to  doubt  her  father.  I  don't 
want  her  to  know  any  hurt.  Every  time  I  took 
issue  with  him,  it  hurt  me.  I'm  basically  a  mad- 
man. I  do  the  most  infernally  bizarre  things. 
The  impulse  of  the  moment  is  invariably  a  plunge 
for  me.  Love  isn't  something  you  may  direct. 
You  cannot  say  you  will  love  this  or  that  person." 

"No,"  said  Nancy. 

"The  bolt  is  blind.  Often  we  love  where  we 
don't  want  to  love.  And  that  is  my  misfortune. 


214         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

4 

I  wrote  her  letters,  Nancy.  I  do  know  human 
nature.  There  is  always  something  fascinating  in 
the  unknown.  So  I  wrote  her  love-letters,  un- 
signed, to  keep  myself  in  her  thoughts  until  I  ful- 
filled the  conditions  of  the  bargain.  She  may  have 
torn  them  up;  she  may  still  have  them.  And  now 
I  shall  never  know.  Nancy,  Bannister  is  going  to 
be  my  home.  It  is  the  way  out  I've  been  seeking. 
Already  I  love  it.  I  shall  build  hospitals  where 
the  poor  can  go  for  nothing.  I  shall  make  play- 
grounds where  the  children  can  play  on  the  grass. 
I  shall  tie  a  stout  bandage  around  the  eyes  of 
justice.  No  one  shall  rob  the  poor  any  more  and 
leave  them  without  redress.  Oh,  I  know.  It 
sounds  like  a  boy's  dream.  But  I  have  the  power, 
Nancy;  tremendous  power  for  good.  An  honest 
newspaper.  .  .  ." 

"And  a  noble  heart!  Do  you  believe  in  fairy 
stories,  Brand?  Father  says  he  thinks  you  do." 

"I  believe  in  good  fairies  like  you." 

"Very  well.  I'm  going  to  be  one,  Brand,  for 
your  sake.  .  .  .  There  goes  the  bell!" 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "I'll  run  away 
into  the  greenhouse.  I  want  to  fend  off  the  de- 
nouement as  long  as  possible.  I  don't  care  whom 
I  go  in  to  dinner  with." 

"Run  along,  Brushwood  Boy!"  replied  Nancy, 
smiling. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        215 

"I  wonder  what  in  the  world  I'd  have  done 
without  you,  Nancy." 

"Nonsense!  You're  a  nice  boy,  and  any  girl 
ought  to  be  pleased  to  have  you  around.  I'll  send 
the  man  for  you." 

"I  am  not  going  in  with.  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated. 

"Mercy,  no!  Neither  of  you  would  ever  for- 
give me." 

The  greenhouse  had  once  been  a  long,  rambling 
side  porch.  The  roof  and  the  south  face  were  of 
glass;  to  the  north  was  the  house  wall.  There 
were  no  orchids  or  potted  orange-trees:  pansies 
and  garden-pinks  and  geraniums  and  a  few  roses. 
This  was  the  doctor's  playground.  He  liked  to 
bury  his  fingers  in  the  smelly  earth;  and  because 
he  knew  it  was  not  a  conservatory,  he  called  it  a 
greenhouse. 

Cathewe  sat  down  in  a  camp  chair  and  studied 
the  stars.  .  .  .  Perhaps  in  a  little  while  she 
would  go  away  again.  Love  was  not  immortal, 
not  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  maid.  He  would  never 
forget,  but  the  day  was  bound  to  come  when 
he  could  look  upon  her  without  any  petty  dis- 
turbance of  collective  thought.  He  would  throw 
all  his  energies  into  his  work,  his  books,  and  his 
newspaper,  and  lead  his  followers  into  a  promised 
land.  A  powerful  newspaper  and  three  millions 


216         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

in  money!  Hospitals  and  homes  and  playgrounds; 
a  law  firm  to  handle  the  business  of  the  poor,  to 
advise  and  protect  them;  a  free  dispensary.  And 
the  thousand  and  one  things  he  could  and  would 
do  for  these  people  who  had  so  recently  defended 
him.  The  way  out,  and  he  had  found  it  here  in 
Bannister! 

There  was  an  incandescent  lamp  at  each  end  of 
the  greenhouse;  but  where  he  sat  there  was  only 
the  dim  light  of  the  winter  stars. 

He  heard  a  door  close,  then  a  light  scurry  of  feet 
on  the  cement  floor.  An  intrusion.  He  stood  up. 
A  woman  was  approaching  the  spot  where  he 
stood.  No  doubt  she  believed  herself  alone.  She 
paused  suddenly  to  inhale  the  perfume  of  the  pinks. 
When  she  raised  her  head,  he  saw  who  it  was. 


CHAPTER   XX 

Aj  day  Betty  had  been  in  an  unusual  state 
of  mind.  Emotionally,  she  had  been 
knocked  about  grievously.  Wrath,  in- 
dignation, pain,  bewilderment,  wonder,  pride, 
chagrin:  blind  shuttles  that  wove  a  kind  of  night- 
mare for  her.  She  had  been  hurt,  unfairly;  and 
she  was  powerless  to  strike  back  because  one  can- 
not strike  a  phantom.  Had  she  been  reared  in 
America,  she  knew  she  would  never  have  opened 
the  second  and  succeeding  letters.  Not  because 
of  any  particular  sense  of  impropriety;  rather  it 
was  the  point  of  view;  and  her  point  of  view  was 
essentially  French.  Nancy's  point  of  view  was 
that  of  the  run  of  sensible,  well-bred  American 
girls.  No  matter  how  beautifully  written,  the 
anonymous  letter  had  but  one  abiding  place — 
the  waste-basket.  She  recalled  that  her  American 
instinct  had  at  first  led  her  to  the  fire. 

The  French  girl,  eternally  hedged  in,  was  always 
immediately  susceptible  to  an  intrigue  of  this 
order;  and  fourteen  years  of  association  and  tram- 
ing  had  instilled  into  Betty's  blood  that  romantic 
ardour  which  makes  the  French  woman  supremely 

217 


218         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

attractive.  A  French  woman,  having  received 
that  final  letter,  would  have  shrugged  and  looked 
about  for  a  new  adventure.  The  affair  would  have 
slipped  from  her  mind  with  the  ease  of  a  cloak 
from  her  shoulders.  Betty,  French  by  adoption 
and  American  by  birth,  could  accept  the  intrigue 
but  could  not  shake  it  loose. 

There  finally  opened  up  in  her  a  vein  of  unsus- 
pected recklessness.  She  determined  no  longer 
to  hold  herself  aloof.  She  would  make  herself 
attractive  to  men,  and  without  mercy  make  them 
all  pay  for  the  hurt  she  had  received  at  the 
hands  of  one.  She  never  suspected  that  her 
cold  rage  was  but  an  expression  of  the  Mansfield 
blood. 

A  little  while  previous  to  the  making  of  her 
toilet  for  Nancy's  birthday  party,  she  had  gone 
resolutely  to  that  Florentine  box,  taken  out  the 
letters  and  ripped  one  of  them  across  the  middle, 
savagely  .  .  .  and  burst  into  tears  after  she 
had  done  so. 

When  the  limousine  drew  up  to  the  curb  before 
the  Maddox  place,  she  did  not  alight  at  once. 
She  stared  through  the  window  at  the  little  house 
across  the  way.  She  wondered  if,  with  a  mother 
like  that,  she  would  have  been  the  victim  of  her 
present  unhappiness.  She  did  not  want  laughter, 
jests,  dancing;  she  wanted  to  sit  beside  that  beauti- 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        219 

ful  and  remarkable  woman  while  she  played. 
If  it  had  been  anybody's  party  but  Nancy's! 

What  was  it  his  mother  had  called  him?  Sonny? 

"In  a  moment,"  she  said  to  the  chauffeur  who 
had  opened  the  door. 

The  disciple  of  Fabre.  A  grave,  handsome 
young  man,  with  a  whimsical  eye;  now  that  she 
thought  of  it,  a  mystery.  She  had  never  met  him 
anywhere  socially.  He  did  not  belong  to  the 
country  club ;  she  never  saw  him  in  the  fashionable 
restaurant  after  the  theatre.  Ants.  Ants  and 
butterflies  did  not  flock  together,  certainly 
.  .  .  why  not?  whispered  the  Mother  Eve. 
And  instantly  a  plan  of  campaign  formed  in  her 
mind.  She  would  put  the  first  phase  of  it  into 
action  on  the  morrow.  It  offered  attractions; 
and  when  she  stepped  from  the  car,  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  lightness  of  spirit. 

She  threw  her  arms  around  Nancy  and  kissed 
her;  and  Nancy  complimented  her  gaily  upon 
the  beauty  of  her  gown.  And  both  of  them  were 
passing  through  that  singular  phase  of  life  which 
crystallizes  the  outlook  and  makes  for  misanthropy 
or  tender  philosophy. 

"And  she  believes  I  am  happy!"  thought  Betty. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  thought  Nancy.  "How 
shall  I  act?  To  tell  her  that  Brand  wrote  those 
letters  would  only  add  to  the  confusion,  since 


220         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

he  has  built  a  Chinese  wall  between  them.  Am 
I  fool  enough  to  hope?  Would  I  not  despise  him 
if  he  spoke  of  love  to  me?  Nancy  Maddox, 
spinster  .  .  .  because  she  will  never  love 
anybody  else!" 

Betty  at  once  became  encircled.  Fresh  and 
pleasant  faces  these  young  men  had;  but  not  one 
of  them  attracted  her.  She  could  not  have  em- 
barked upon  the  mildest  sort  of  flirtation  with  any 
of  them;  no  more  than  she  could  have  struck 
her  dog  when  he  hadn't  done  anything  wrong. 
Laughter  began  to  bubble  up  in  her.  She  wanted 
to  be  alone.  It  was  so  funny!  She  had  set  forth 
to  wreak  vengeance  upon  mankind  for  her  hurt, 
and  she  could  not  begin  even  on  these! 

Among  other  things,  she  had  been  taught  how 
to  leave  admirers  without  offending  them.  A 
smile,  a  little  nod,  and  the  act  was  consummated. 
She  could  not  remember  how  she  reached  it,  but 
reach  it  she  did — the  door  to  the  greenhouse. 
She  must  laugh;  and  if  Nancy's  friends  heard  her 
burst  into  laughter,  illogically,  they  would  credit 
her  with  madness  or  insolence.  However,  the 
craving  proved  to  be  only  a  touch  of  hysteria; 
and  once  the  door  was  shut  behind  her,  the  tension 
vanished.  The  scent  of  the  flowers  and  the  moist 
earth  helped  to  steady  her,  too.  Still,  she  felt 
a  trifle  weak  and  would  have  liked  to  sit  down. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names 

She  remembered  there  were  camp-chairs  some- 
where; and  she  walked  down  the  little  alley  be- 
tween the  boxes  and  tubs,  peering  right  and  left. 
When  she  came  to  the  box  of  pinks,  she  stopped 
to  inhale  the  spicy  perfume.  Raising  her  head,  she 
saw  the  white  expanse  of  a  dress-shirt,  quite  close. 

"I  thought  I  was  alone,"  she  said. 

"You  say  that  with  a  shade  of  resentment.  I 
was  here  first." 

"Goodness! — the  ant-man!  What  kind  of  bugs 
wander  about  at  night  in  greenhouses?"  Just 
what  she  needed :  a  clever,  wordly  man  with  whom 
to  exchange  banter  and  chaff  for  a  few  minutes. 
A  thought  struck  her  in  a  kind  of  ricochet.  She 
couldn't  wreak  vengeance  upon  this  man,  either, 
because  once  he  had  been  kind  to  Sandy  the  Aire- 
dale. She  laughed.  There  was  no  note  of  hysteria 
in  the  laughter.  "Please  find  me  a  chair." 

He  found  one  under  a  box,  and  opened  it. 
"You  take  mine.  It  will  be  cleaner  and  drier. 
The  bugs  that  wander  in  the  night?  Well,  there 
are  dream-bugs,  and  memory-bugs,  and  con- 
science-bugs; they  are  as  populous  as  Jason's 
dragon -teeth.  But  they  vanish  in  company." 

"That  rather  leaves  me  'twixt  wind  and  water, 
as  sailors  say." 

"Meaning?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  am  welcome  or  not." 


222         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"As  welcome  as  light  coming  into  the  dark. 
I  like  to  watch  the  stars.  There's  a  wonder  about 
them  that  all  the  astronomers,  ancient  and  modern, 
cannot  dissipate,  because  human  beings  are  funda- 
mentally superstitious." 

She  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  reply;  and  for 
a  little  while  they  stared  at  the  stars  .... 
without  seeing  them. 

Here,  beside  him,  like  this!  And  now  he  never 
could  tell  her;  she  would  never  know.  Had  she 
read  those  letters?  Had  they  touched  her,  made 
an  impression  on  her  mind?  Did  she  comprehend 
that  it  was  real  love?  It  was  human  to  want  to 
know  desperately;  and  there  was  no  human  way 
through  this  wall  which  an  ideal  had  thrust  be- 
tween them.  What  a  madman  he  was!  She 
on  Polygon  Hill  and  he  in  this  little  backwater 
street:  separate  destinies.  In  an  hour  or  so  she 
would  learn  the  truth;  and  by  her  faith  in  her 
father  she  must  hate  and  despise  Brandon  Cathewe. 

Pits;  no  matter  which  way  he  turned  he  dug 
them.  He  became  aware  of  a  new  twist  in  the 
many-faced  irony  of  this  adventure.  He  had 
risen  to  power  in  Bannister  by  the  leverage  of  her 
father's  misdeeds.  Without  this  capital,  the 
Herald  would  never  have  been  roused  from  its 
moribund  state.  His  own  personality  would  have 
been  negligible.  Mansfield  had,  impelled  by  a 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        ZZ3 

sardonic  mood,  directed  him  to  Bannister;  and 
he  had  become  Mansfield's  Frankenstein,  which, 
rending  the  creator,  would  at  the  same  time  rend 
itself.  There  did  not  exist  more  perfect  mockery. 

Here,  her  shoulder  almost  touching  his — the 
woman  he  loved!  And  the  God  of  irony  had 
whisked  her  as  far  away  actually  as  if  she  had  been 
transplanted  upon  Jupiter. 

"Jupiter!"  he  said  aloud,  unthinkingly. 

"And  what  about  Jupiter?" 

"Jupiter?" 

"You  spoke  aloud." 

"  Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  something  up  there  that 
I  want." 

"Well!  I  have  heard  of  persons  wishing  for 
the  moon;  but  Jupiter!" 

"In  wishing  for  things  we  cannot  have,  what's 
the  harm  in  wishing  big!  Why  wish  for  the  moon 
when  Jupiter  is  thirteen  hundred  times  larger  than 
the  earth?" 

"What  an  erudite  person  you  are!  And  what 
would  you  do  with  Jupiter  if  you  had  it?" 

"Oh,  I  only  want  to  go  there  and  come  back." 

"With  what?" 

"A  dream  that  has,  I  suspect,  flown  that  far 
away." 

"We  do  waste  a  good  deal  of  time  .  .  . 
wishing  for  things  we  cannot  have." 


£24         The  Man  With  Three  Names' 

"Do  you?" 

"I  have,  naturally,  being  human  like  every- 
body else.  What  kind  of  a  dream?" 

"The  most  beautiful  of  all  dreams." 

"I  might  interpret  that,  if  I  knew  you  better. 
Am  I  ever  going  to  know  you  better?  " 

It  required  quick  thought  on  his  part  to  find  an 
evasion.  "You  will  be  in  Bannister  this  winter?" 

"This  is  my  home." 

"Then  it  is  quite  likely." 

Silence. 

Still  that  baffling  reserve,  she  thought.  But 
this  time  he  should  not  escape.  Before  they  left 
the  greenhouse  she  intended  to  ask  him  point- 
blank  what  his  name  was.  A  mystery  here  was 
utter  nonsense.  He  was  Nancy's  friend;  and  there 
was  no  logical  reason  why  he  should  not  be  Betty 
Mansfield's. 

We  all  have  a  habit  of  conjuring  up  pictures 
of  persons  we  hear  about  but  do  not  see.  We 
stubbornly  cling  to  these  rude  conceptions  and 
are  nonplussed  when  confronted  by  the  reality. 
So  it  was  with  Betty.  Indelibly  registered  in  her 
mind  as  Brandon  Cathewe  was  a  picture  of  a 
wild-eyed,  dark-haired  anarchist,  not  very  clean, 
and  thoroughly  dishonest. 

As  the  silence  grew  there  burst  upon  her  the 
sudden  acknowledgment  that  she  liked  this  un- 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        2Z5 

known.  Nebulously  he  had  been  in  her  thoughts 
frequently  of  late;  now,  in  this  moment,  he  emerged 
into  the  clear.  He  was  so  different  from  all  the 
other  men  she  had  met.  The  first  man  who  had 
not,  in  some  fashion  or  other,  subtly  flattered  her. 
His  propinquity  gave  her  a  sense  of  freedom, 
even  though  this  was  only  the  third  meeting. 
With  all  other  men  she  was  instinctively  on  guard, 
at  least  verbally.  With  this  one  she  felt  that  she 
could  let  down  the  bars  to  any  mental  fancy  and 
be  perfectly  understood.  Why?  Was  it  be- 
cause, just  behind  him,  stood  the  vision  of  that 
wonderful  woman  who  was  his  mother? 

"Your  mother  has  fascinated  me." 

"I  am  quite  sure  the  fascination  is  mutual. 
She  has  done  for  you  what  she  never  does  for 
strangers.  You  see,  I  am  more  or  less  familiar 
with  her  moods.  She  often  plays  for  Miss  Maddox 
and  her  father — placidly.  Somehow  you  touched 
the  flame  and  passion  in  her.  She  sensed  the 
musician  in  you.  You  sing." 

"You  were  there?" 

"  Yes — in  the  study.  I  apologize  for  not  making 
my  presence  known.  But  I  wanted  to  hear  more 
of  your  singing,  and  was  afraid  you'd  stop  if  I 
appeared." 

"I  shouldn't  have  minded  .  .  .  after  the 
first  song." 


226         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

The  door  opened,  and  Bannister's  itinerant 
butler — the  caterer's  man — announced  that  dinner 
was  served.  As  they  reached  the  door,  Betty 
turned  upon  Cathewe  swiftly. 

"I  am  Miss  Mansfield,  as  you  know.  And  you 
are  ...  ?" 

"The  King  of  Mount  Sipylus." 

"You  are  in  the  encyclopedia?" 

"By  the  name  of  Tantalus?" 

The  light  was  in  his  face  now,  and  she  observed 
that  he  had  the  air  of  one  very  tired. 

Nancy  herself  rescued  the  situation.  She  evi- 
dently recognized  that  some  crisis  was  in  the 
making.  She  caught  Betty  by  the  arm  and  drew 
her  aside.  She  turned  to  Cathewe. 

"Miss  Stoddard  is  waiting  for  you." 

He  nodded  and  hurried  off. 

"Nancy  .  .  ."  began  Betty,  a  fiery  note  in 
her  tones. 

"Betty,  here  is  something  I  want  you  to  read." 
Nancy  put  into  Betty's  hand  a  sealed  envelope. 
"Under  no  circumstance  open  it  until  you  are 
home.  After  you  read  it,  telephone  me  what  you 
think  of  it." 

"Something  I  must  not  read  here?"  asked 
Betty,  eying  the  envelope  doubtfully,  perhaps 
impatiently. 

"You   would   prefer   to   read   it  in   seclusion. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         227 

Here  comes  your  table  partner.  It  is  only  a  bit 
of  manuscript.  I  want  it  returned." 

Betty  folded  the  envelope  and  hid  it  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.  She  went  into  the  dining 
room,  angry  and  confused.  Tantalus!  What 
did  he  mean?  And  why  had  Nancy  intervened 
like  that?  Once  seated,  she  saw  that  her  unknown 
cavalier  was  directly  opposite.  He  consistently 
refused  to  meet  her  eye,  however.  But  for  all 
that,  no  move  of  hers  escaped  him. 

"Mr.  Morrison,  who  is  the  gentleman  opposite?" 

"You  don't  know  him?" 

"I  have  met  him  rather  unconventionally, 
but  there  has  been  no  introduction." 

"Perhaps  you  will  not  want  one.  He  is  Bran- 
don Cathewe,  the  editor  of  the  Herald." 

For  a  moment  the  candlelight  grew  dim  and 
the  shadowy  wall  rocked. 

"I  had  pictured  him  quite  a  different  sort," 
she  said,  evenly.  "Will  you  present  him  before 
we  leave  the  room?  " 

"If  you  wish  it" — distressed.  The  young  man 
wondered  what  had  possessed  Nancy  to  bring 
these  two  together  under  one  roof. 

"I  wish  it." 

He  glanced  covertly  at  the  beautiful  profile, 
now  without  colour.  From  the  odd  emphasis  of 
that  crisp  sentence,  he  gathered  that,  having  the 


228         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

name  of  Morrison  instead  of  Cathewe,  he  stood 
in  great  luck. 

The  dinner  progressed  smoothly  to  its  end. 
There  was  laughter  and  light  banter  and  amusing 
gossip;  and  underneath  a  current  of  uneasiness. 
For  all  of  them  understood  that  here  was  food  for 
days  of  speculation.  Brandon  Cathewe  on  one 
side  of  the  table  and  Betty  Mansfield  on  the  other! 
A  bit  of  drama  which  all  were  able  to  grasp 
properly.  But  Nancy's  reason  for  staging  this 
drama  was  as  legible  as  Urdu  to  a  Chinaman. 

Their  sympathies,  too,  were  equally  divided. 
Betty  was  popular.  Her  beauty  and  wealth 
created  no  envy.  No  one  ever  envies  the  beautiful 
princess  except  in  fairy  stories.  Her  sensible 
charities  and  generosity,  her  charm  of  manner, 
won  them  all  unconditionally.  At  first  they  had 
felt  sorry  for  her;  now  this  sorrow  was  overlaid 
by  admiration.  They  saw,  what  she  did  not  sus- 
pect in  the  least,  that  she  was  making  over  her 
father,  humanizing  him. 

And  none  could  now  doubt  the  honesty  of  the 
aloof  young  man  across  the  table,  this  semi-hermit 
who  wanted  nothing  for  himself  and  all  good  things 
for  Bannister. 

The  introduction  took  place  after  the  other 
guests  had  left  the  dining  room.  Immediately 
the  embarrassed  master  of  ceremonies  took  to 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        229 

his  heels.  Betty  and  Cathewe  stood  alone,  fac- 
ing each  other. 

"Suppose  we  return  to  the  greenhouse?"  she 
suggested. 

He  led  the  way,  closing  the  door  gently.  "I 
have  tried  to  avoid  this  moment,  but  it  was  in- 
evitable." 

"Why  do  you  hate  my  father?" 

"I  do  not  hate  him.     We  have  different  ideals." 

"I  was  just  beginning  to  like  you!" 

"And  now?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  Something  dreadful  seems 
to  have  happened  to  me.  Has  my  father  ever 
wronged  you  or  yours?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  do  you  attack  him?" 

He  was  silent.  All  this  was  totally  unexpected, 
out  of  his  reckoning.  He  had  come  prepared 
against  a  cold  insolence  which  would  speak  only 
with  the  eye,  and  pass  on,  forever.  But  to  con- 
front him  like  this  with  questions,  and  with  a 
courage  which  he  was  inclined  to  believe  was  peri- 
lously close  to  tears!  He  could  not  defend  himself 
because  he  loved  her.  He  could  not  dispel  any 
portrait  she  had  drawn  of  him;  and  the  knowledge 
filled  him  with  savage  irony.  He  had  deliberately 
set  his  neck  in  this  springe. 

"I  love  my  father,  and  he  loves  me;  we  are  twain 


£30         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

as  one.  He  will  not  stoop  to  defend  himself  from 
calumny.  Different  ideals !  My  father  has  made 
this  city  prosperous.  What  have  you,  an  out- 
sider, done?" 

"Not  an  outsider,  just  an  outcast!" — in  the 
full  tide  of  bitterness.  "I  am  cursed  with  envy. 
What  another  man  has,  I  want.  If  I  can  rob  a 
man  legally,  I  do  it.  Why  should  I  care  where  my 
money  comes  from,  so  long  as  it  comes?  I 
have  only  one  God — self.  I  am  one  of  those  mad- 
men whom  society  permits  to  roam  at  large  be- 
cause society  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  them. 
And  we  don't  know  what  to  do  with  ourselves!" 

The  abysmal  misery  in  the  inflections  went  over 
her  head.  "That  is  not  defence  for  slander." 

"But  I  am  not  defending  myself.  I  am  stating 
a  condition  of  the  mind." 

,"And  the  future?" 

"Whenever  our  ideals  clash,  it  is  inescapable 
that  I  shall  attack  your  father." 

."Then  I  will  defend  him.  After  January  first 
you  will  no  longer  direct  the  policies  of  your  despic- 
able newspaper." 

"And  what  miracle  will  happen  to  prevent  me?" 

"It  has  already  happened.  At  this  moment 
I  control  the  majority  of  the  stock."  The  level 
quality  of  her  tones  was  Mansfieldian — cold  and 
implacable. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        231 

The  normal  outcome  of  such  a  revelation — the 
shattering  of  his  wonderful  dreams,  his  future, 
the  invitation  of  Ishmael  once  more  to  take  to 
the  road — should  have  been  the  crystallization 
of  despair.  He  sensed  nothing  beyond  the  fact 
that  this  was  the  end  of  the  last  chapter  and  the 
impulse  to  crush  her  in  his  arms,  kiss  her,  and  rush 
away. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  let  this  impulse  have 
its  way  had  not  a  chemical  phenomenon  inter- 
vened. There  came  a  series  of  rumbles  like  thun- 
der in  the  distance.  The  greenhouse  trembled, 
and  there  was  the  crisp  tinkle  of  falling  glass. 
Instinctively  both  of  them  wheeled  and  stared 
through  the  glass  at  the  sky  in  the  east.  They 
saw  it  grow  lurid  then  sharply  ruddy. 

"The  munitions,"  he  gasped.  And  ran  toward 
the  door. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

WHEN  the  cub  reporter  fell  in  a  faint  on 
the   paper-littered   floor   of   Cathewe's 
office,  Cathewe  became  affected   by  a 
strange    tightness    in    his    throat.     This    callow 
boy,  bruised  and  bloody  but  undaunted,  getting 
back  to  the  office  the  Lord  only  knew  how,  but 
getting  back  because  the  office  might  need  such 
information  as  he  had  acquired! 

As  he  pillowed  the  lad's  head  upon  an  overcoat 
and  washed  the  blood  and  grime  from  his  face, 
Cathewe  fell  to  musing  upon  the  elusive  human 
attribute  called  loyalty.  Reporters  and  soldiers, 
there  was  only  one  difference — uniform.  Always 
obeying  without  question,  always  ill-paid;  but 
the  soldier  had  one  spectacular  advantage.  A 
bit  of  valour,  and  his  general  decorated  him  and 
the  public  lionized  him;  whereas  the  deeds  of  the 
reporter  were  shelved  unsung.  The  same  quality 
of  courage  which  carried  a  staff  runner  through  a 
barrage  of  high  explosives  had  carried  this  cub 
back  to  the  office  with  his  information  and  descrip- 
tion of  the  men  who  had  succeeded  in  blowing 
up  a  section  of  Bannister.  And  to-morrow  he 

232 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        233 

would  be  going  the  dull  round  of  routine,  register- 
ing real-estate  deals  and  the  local  market  reports! 

Loyalty  directly  to  the  Herald  and  indirectly 
to  the  man  who  controlled  it.  He  had,  then,  the 
gift  to  draw  and  hold  the  fealty  of  men,  of  inspiring 
them  with  enthusiasm,  with  courage.  Until  this 
hour  he  had  never  given  the  phase  a  single  thought. 

The  boy  opened  his  eyes. 

"Can  you  talk?  Are  you  up  to  telling  what 
happened?"  asked  Cathewe. 

"Yes,  sir.  I'm  all  right  now.  A  little  groggy, 
but  nothing  to  speak  of." 

"Take  his  story,  Sanderson." 

"Say,  chief,"  whispered  the  boy,  when  the  re- 
porter went  back  to  the  city  room,  "there's 
something  else  I've  got  to  tell  you.  I  did  some- 
thing rotten  this  morning.  It's  been  bothering 
me  all  day,  I  was  a  skunk." 

"Well,  what  have  you  done?" 

"The  other  day  they  sent  me  up  to  interview 
Mansfield.  His  daughter  led  me  into  his  study, 
knowing  what  would  happen.  The  old  pirate 
grabbed  me  by  the  collar  and  ran  me  past  the 
butler  hah*  way  to  the  street.  That  made  me 
sore.  So  this  morning  I  cut  out  all  the  news  stories 
and  editorials  concerning  him  and  mailed  them 
to  Miss  Mansfield,  with  an  unsigned  note  that 
everything  was  true.  Well,  the  moment  I 


234         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

dropped  the  stuff  in  the  postoffice,  I  got  cold  feet. 
I  tried  to  get  it  back,  but  there  was  nothing  doing 
because  I'd  stamped  it.  It  wasn't  .  .  .  well, 
it  wasn't  what  you'd  call  sportsmanlike.  I'm 
horribly  sorry." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Cathewe,  gravely.  "I  ought 
to  twist  your  neck." 

"All  right,  I'm  fired." 

"No.  What  you  did  to-night  squares  that. 
You're  going  on  the  payroll  at  twenty  a  week, 
as  long  as  I  have  anything  to  say.  The  fault  is 
Chadwick's.  He  had  no  business  to  send  you 
up  there.  But  I'm  glad  you  told  me.  There's 
a  taxi  for  you  below.  Can  you  make  it  alone, 
or  shall  I  call  one  of  the  boys?" 

"I'm  all  right."  The  boy  got  up,  swayed,  and 
gasped  sharply:  "Gee!  they  sure  beat  me  up." 

Cathewe  called  to  the  city  room  for  someone  to 
help  the  boy  to  the  cab;  and  as  soon  as  this  was 
done,  the  harried  editor  fell  to  pacing. 

January  first.  It  would  not  have  hit  him  so 
hard  but  for  that  super-woman,  his  mother. 
To  force  her  to  assume  again  the  role  of  Hagar 
to  his  Ishmael,  when  she  had  finally  accepted 
Bannister  as  the  "haven  under  the  hill!"  To 
lose  all  this,  to  see  his  dreams  crumble,  because  he 
had  hesitated  over  what  might  be  called  a  moral 
technicality!  Hadn't  he  dipped  into  that  money 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        235 

to  carry  along  the  payroll?  What  was  thirty  or 
forty  thousand,  which  in  time  he  could  have  paid 
back  of  a  certainty,  against  the  possibility  of  this 
catastrophe?  They  would  have  sold  out  to  him 
eagerly  enough;  and  he  had  doddered.  All  be- 
cause they  had  agreed  on  honour  never  to  sell 
out  to  Mansfield.  They  admitted  selling  to  a 
young  attorney  who  was  in  no  wise  affiliated  with 
the  Mansfield  interests;  but  they  had  been  totally 
unaware  of  the  fact  that  Miss  Mansfield  had  been 
standing  in  the  background.  Nevertheless,  they 
had  betrayed  him.  They  had  not  warned  him 
of  the  offer,  which  signified  that  they  had  been 
offered  two  or  three  times  the  par  value. 

Again  the  word  loyalty.  She  did  not  want 
the  Herald.  What  became  of  it  after  its  present 
editor  was  gone  would  be  immaterial  to  her. 
She  had  bought  the  Herald  simply  to  strangle 
the  only  potent  enemy  her  father  had.  Loyalty. 
No  suspicion,  then,  had  entered  her  head  that 
where  there  was  smoke  there  was  fire.  And  how 
would  that  envelope  full  of  clippings  affect  this 
loyalty? 

The  old  man  of  the  sea  was  still  on  the  shoulders 
of  Digby  Hallowell's  son.  He  would  have  to  start 
all  over  again,  somewhere,  somehow.  He  would 
sell  the  little  home  and  turn  back  the  proceeds 
to  his  mother.  And  what  would  she  do — return 


236         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

to  Florence  or  follow  his  new  fortune?  After  all, 
there  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind.  From  now  on 
until  the  end  of  time — together. 

But  where  had  the  girl  found  those  fifty  missing 
shares?  No  matter.  She  had  found  them.  A 
shadow  in  the  doorway  distracted  his  musings. 

"Ah,  Matthews!"  he  cried,  as  a  man  about  his 
own  age  came  in.  The  newcomer's  face  was  be- 
grimed with  smoke  and  his  overcoat  was  flaked 
with  ashes.  "Give  me  the  gist  of  it.  I've  been 
holding  up  the  editorial  page  for  two  hours." 

The  star  reporter  dropped  into  the  chair  beside 
his  chief's  desk. 

"Five  dead  and  forty -seven  injured.  The  big- 
gest story  that  ever  struck  this  town,  Mr.  Cathewe, 
and  there  is  a  phase  to  it  I  just  don't  know  how  to 
handle.  I  want  your  point  of  view  first.  Great! 
There'll  be  a  revolution  in  thought  in  this  burg 
to-morrow  if  you  will  let  me  swing  the  yarn  in 
my  own  way." 

"That's  always  understood  here,  Matthews. 
There's  no  wall  around  the  truth  in  this  office. 
What's  the  big  thing?" 

"Bannister  has  got  two  great  citizens  that  we 
didn't  suspect.  The  bravest  of  the  brave,  and 
all  that.  When  I  hit  the  trail  out  there,  the  main 
thing  in  my  head  was  this:  in  working  a  day  and 
night  shift  at  top  speed  on  his  water-line,  the 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        237 

Federal  authorities  will  not  meddle.  He  had 
originally  followed  the  architectural  plans;  and 
on  paper  the  elevated  tubs  seemed  to  be  plenty. 
The  thing  that  saves  him,  though,  is  his  tackling 
the  pipe-line  on  his  own  initiative." 

"I  understand.     How  about  the  hospital?" 

/'Wiped  out.     But  it  happened  to  be  empty." 

"And  the  two  great  citizens?" 

"Mansfield  and  that  stunning  girl  of  his.  That 
girl  goes  sailing  out  there  in  her  dinner  gown  and 
turns  her  big  limousine  into  an  ambulance,  and 
makes  twelve  trips  to  the  hospitals.  I  stood  be- 
side her  once  and  brushed  the  sparks  off  her  sable 
coat,  which  to-morrow  won't  be  worth  thirty 
cents.  Lord,  but  she  was  a  picture!  When  she 
turned  up  for  the  eighth  trip,  the  crowd  cheered 
her.  I  joined  that  cheer.  I'm  a  hard-boiled  egg, 
for  a  fact,  but  the  smoke  didn't  cause  all  the  tears 
in  my  eyes." 

"Go  on,  man,  go  on!"  Cathewe  shut  the  door 
to  the  humming  city  room. 

"The  place  was  totally  wrecked.  All  the  water 
in  the  world  could  not  have  saved  it.  They  must 
have  got  through  via  the  railroad.  The  two 
National  Guard  boys  on  duty  there  are  in  the 
hospital  with  banged-up  heads.  Four  tanks  of 
T.N.T. — you  know  he  had  four  separate  fields 
of  them,  so  that  if  an  accident  happened  to  one 


238         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

field,  the  others  would  be  immune — in  the  four 
fields  exploded  simultaneously.  Which  gave  rise 
to  the  supposition  that  time-bombs  had  been 
placed  under  each  tank.  Anyhow,  the  fire  started 
at  four  points  of  the  compass.  A  loss  of  about  a 
million,  all  Mansfield's;  for  that  was  an  individual 
enterprise." 

"And  if  only  someone  had  listened  to  the  cub, 
we  might  have  prevented  it.  The  police  chased 
him  into  the  street,  and  here  in  the  office  we 
laughed.  We  thought  it  was  one  of  his  spy-mad 
stunts.  Well,  go  on." 

"Well,  the  girl  is  in  the  city  hospital " 

"Hurt?" 

The  strained  note  caught  the  reporter's  ear, 
and  he  looked  puzzled.  "No.  Just  watching  at 
the  side  of  her  father's  cot.  And  here's  the  brilliant 
part  of  the  story.  Seems  Mansfield  was  out  there 
inspecting  the  work  on  the  pipe-line  when  the 
place  blew  up.  He  wasn't  touched,  but  he  hung 
around,  giving  orders.  And  he  was  a  mighty  cool 
hand,  too,  they  tell  me." 

"But  the  hospital!" 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  What  he  did  was  as 
brave  a  thing  as  might  happen  over  there  in  France. 
One  side  of  his  face  will  be  badly  scarred  and  his 
left  hand  crippled.  Dashed  into  a  blazing  shack 
for  three  Slav  kiddies  that  had  been  deserted  by 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        239 

their  terror-stricken  father.  Coming  out  the 
door  frame  fell  upon  him.  But  he  staggered 
through,  into  the  safety  zone.  He  was  badly 
burned,  but  the  kiddies  escaped  with  nothing 
more  serious  than  singed  hair." 

"And  then?" 

"Not  a  sound  from  that  crowd!  First-off, 
that  struck  me  as  rather  hard  and  cruel.  But  I 
got  the  rights  of  it  shortly.  Stunned.  That  the 
man  who  had  used  them  like  sheep  should  risk  his 
life  for  three  kiddies  who  weren't  anything  to  him 
had  stunned  them.  When  they  awoke,  he  was 
on  his  way  to  the  city  hospital.  Looks  to  me, 
chief,  as  if  our  capital  has  suddenly  been  wiped 
out.  We  can't  jump  on  the  old  freebooter  here- 
after." 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  said  Cathewe.  "I'd 
like  nothing  better  than  to  go  up  there  and  shake 
his  good  hand." 

"Then  the  lid  is  off?" 

"Squeeze  all  you  can  out  of  the  story.  Let 
the  town  realize  that  Dunleigh  Mansfield  has  come 
home.  For  that's  what  has  happened." 

"Here's  the  real  climax.  The  girl  carried  eleven 
men  to  the  Good  Shepherd.  When  she  got  there 
with  the  twelfth,  there  wasn't  room.  So  she  had 
to  take  the  man  to  the  city  hospital.  She  saw 
to  it  that  the  man  was  given  the  best  aid  obtain- 


240         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

able.  When  they  had  got  him  all  swathed  up  in 
cotton,  she  chanced  to  turn  toward  the  next  cot 
— and  there  lay  her  father!" 

Cathewe  caught  his  star  man  by  the  shoulders 
and  pushed  him  from  the  room.  He  himself  had 
work  to  do.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  the  editorial 
which  was  talked  about  long  after  the  fire  was 
forgotten.  This  editorial  was  headed:  "Mans- 
field Comes  Home." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BETTY,  her  beautiful  sable  coat  covered 
with  scorched  spots  and  her  dinner  gown 
soiled  and  disordered — for  she  had  worked 
along  with  the  hospital  nurses — Betty,  who  had 
slept  in  the  chair  beside  her  father's  cot,  spread 
out  the  Times  and  with  heavy  eyes  scanned  the 
black  headlines.  After  one  glance  her  weariness 
dropped  from  her. 

"Daddy!"  she  cried,  exultantly. 

Mansfield's  eyes,  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  one  side 
of  his  mouth  were  visible;  the  rest  of  his  face  was 
hidden  under  blocks  of  absorbent  cotton.  He 
could  only  whisper  because  one  side  of  his  mouth 
was  taut  with  blisters. 

"You're  a  hero!  The  whole  town  is  talking 
about  your  deed.  Listen."  She  began  reading 
the  account. 

When  she  made  the  first  pause,  he  signified  that 
he  wanted  to  speak.  She  leaned  down.  "What 
paper  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"The  Times." 

A  newspaper  he  owned,  body  and  soul.  "Get 
a  Herald  and  see  what  that  paper  has  to  say." 

241 


242         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"A  Herald?" — with  an  expression  of  such  dis- 
taste that  it  was  communicated  to  her  hands 
which  convulsively  crumpled  the  newspaper  in 
her  lap.  "A.  Herald?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  something  in  his  eyes  that  puzzled 
her.  It  had  the  appearance  of  a  twinkle  of  humour, 
but  she  knew  that  that  could  not  be.  She  called 
to  one  of  the  nurses,  made  her  request,  and  waited 
with  her  father's  uninjured  hand  between  hers. 
The  nurse  reappeared  shortly;  and  Betty  accepted 
the  Herald  with  an  air  as  of  picking  up,  with  tongs, 
something  offensive.  She  flung  it  open,  rather 
noisily  and  wholly  resentfully  .  .  .  and  be- 
came statuesque.  Mansfield  watched  her,  his 
glance  alert.  He  saw  the  resentment  fade,  to 
be  replaced  by  an  expression  of  stupefaction; 
he  saw  a  dozen  emotions  pass  over  her  face — 
sunshine  and  cloud-shadows.  He  touched  her 
knee. 

"Never  mind  the  first  page.  See  if  there  is  an 
editorial." 

She  opened  the  newspaper  to  page  four.  "There 
is." 

"Read  it  to  me." 

When  she  had  done — with  a  voice  that  had  been 
strong  at  the  beginning  but  which  presently  lost 
its  resonance  and  broke  frequently  toward  the 


The  Man  With  Three  Names         243 

end — the  paper  slipped  from  her  hands  to  the  floor 
and  she  stared  across  the  row  of  cots. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  addressing 
nobody  in  particular.  "Daddy,  I  bought  the 
controlling  interest  in  the  Herald  yesterday  morn- 
ing. And  last  night  at  Nancy's  I  told  Mr.  Cathewe 
that  his  successor  would  be  appointed  in  January." 

"You— what?"  barked  Mansfield,  the  left  side 
of  his  face  stabbing  him  with  pain. 

"Bought  it  to  stop  its  lies.  But  I  don't  under- 
stand. That  was  beautiful." 

The  light  in  Mansfield's  eyes  broke  into  many 
little  points,  and  the  lids  worked  rapidly.  "Betty, 
you  have  met  him?" 

"Twice,  accidentally.  He  remained  unknown 
until  last  night.  He  ...  he  rather  inter- 
ested me,  he  was  so  unusual." 

"  He  made  no  attempt  to  meet  you?  " 

"That  is  the  strange  part  of  it.  He  always 
tried  to  avoid  me.  He  said  he  warred  against 
you  because  your  ideals  were  different." 

"He  gave  me  an  ideal?" 

"Yes." 

"That  .  .  .  was  sportsmanlike.  What  do 
you  purpose  to  do  with  the  paper?  "  This  wonder- 
child  of  his,  secretly  buying  up  the  Herald  stock; 
his  enemy  her  enemy ! 

"I  don't  know  now.     I  don't  suppose  I  had  any 


244         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

plans  mapped  out  for  the  future.  I  just  wanted 
the  attacks  against  you  stopped.  He  says  you 
have  come  home.  What  does  he  mean  by  that?" 

"I'll  mull  it  over  and  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
it  this  afternoon.  You  run  along  home,  take  a 
tubbing,  and  climb  into  bed.  You're  about  done, 
Honey.  And  I'll  be  rested,  too,  when  you  get  back." 

"I  am  tired.  But  there  is  something  I  want 
to  tell  you — must  tell  you — before  I  leave.  I've 
been  hiding  something  from  you,  Daddy.  In 
France  it  would  be  called  an  affair.  And  yet, 
I  don't  know.  You  can't  have  an  affair  with  a 
man  you  have  never  seen,  whose  name  you  do 
not  know.  For  more  than  three  years  I  have 
been  receiving  letters.  Love-letters,  Daddy.  If 
mother  had  been  alive,  I'd  have  gone  to  her  with 
them.  Somehow  I  could  not  come  to  you.  I 
was  afraid  you  would  not  understand.  I'm  going 
to  be  honest.  They  intrigued  me  deeply.  I 
began  to  search  faces,  listen  when  young  men  spoke. 
They  were  beautiful  letters.  Any  woman  might 
be  proud  to  be  written  to  as  I  was.  After  a  long 
silence,  the  last  letter  came  yesterday.  It  was 
good-bye.  I  am  still  dizzy  wondering  why  he 
bothered  me  at  all.  They  followed  me  all  over 
Europe.  I  often  felt  ashamed,  but  more  often 
thrilled  and  exalted.  I  am  not  philosophical, 
Daddy;  I  am  young;  and  until  that  morning  you 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        245 

told  me  you  loved  me,  I  was  lonely.  I  can  speak 
now  because  the  affair  has  come  to  an  end.  When 
I  go  up  to  the  house,  I  shall  destroy  those  letters.'* 

"A  writer — with  a  little  money,"  whispered 
Mansfield,  his  gaze  directed  toward  the  ceiling. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Nothing  important.  But  I  would  not  destroy 
those  letters.  Some  day  you  will  be  happily 
married,  and  you  and  your  husband  will  laugh 
over  those  effusions.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a 
question.  If  this  phantom  materialized,  would 
you  find  yourself  in  love  with  him?" 

"I  could  tell  better  after  he  materialized. 
What  would  you  advise  me  to  do  with  the  Herald?" 

"I'll  mull  that  question  over,  too.  Better 
run  along  now." 

She  kissed  the  tip  of  his  nose.  Mansfield, 
stirred  by  a  tumult  of  emotions,  followed  her  with 
his  gaze  until  she  passed  out  of  the  ward.  He 
wanted  to  smile — the  old  ironic  twist  of  the  lips. 
Youth  will  be  served.  Letters,  to  trap  and  hold  the 
romantic  side  of  her  until  he  had  made  good! 
A  dreamer  and  a  fighter.  His  own  edifice — the 
grim  fortress  of  Self — lay  in  ruins  about  him. 
But  he  could  see  distances  now;  his  vision  was  no 
longer  obscured.  Had  he  come  home?  He  won- 
dered. The  son  of  Digby  Hallo  well;  and  by  a 
turn  of  the  hand  to  ruin  him  absolutely,  so  far 


246         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

as  his  usefulness  in  Bannister  was  concerned. 
Magnanimity.  That  editorial  breathed  of  it.  What 
to  do  with  a  man  who  told  the  world  that  his 
enemy  was  a  hero?  Dunleigh  Mansfield  closed  his 
eyes  and  for  a  long  time  lay  very  still. 

When  Betty  arrived  home,  she  picked  out  her 
personal  mail  from  the  stack  on  the  hall  bench, 
and  went  to  her  room.  She  glanced  over  the 
letters  casually  and  decided  not  to  read  them  until 
after  she  had  been  refreshed  with  sleep.  As  the 
maid  was  helping  her  to  undress,  a  crumpled 
envelope  fluttered  to  the  floor.  Betty  suddenly 
recollected  that  it  was  the  letter  Nancy  had  given 
her.  She  started  to  rip  open  an  end,  but  desisted. 
Just  now  she  did  not  want  to  be  bothered  by  any- 
thing or  anybody.  The  turmoil  and  horror  of  the 
past  night  had  sapped  her  vitality.  Both  her  body 
and  her  mind  seemed  drugged. 

"Call  me  at  one  promptly,"  she  said,  as  her 
head  touched  the  pillow. 

"What  shall  I  bring  you  for  lunch?"  asked  the 
maid. 

Betty  did  not  answer.  She  was  already  asleep. 
For  four  straight  hours  her  pillow  was  oblivion; 
and  when  she  awoke  she  had  to  think  strongly 
to  convince  herself  that  what  she  had  gone  through 
was  not  a  nightmare.  She  ate  her  lunch  sitting 
up  in  bed.  She  saw  that  outside  the  day  was 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        247 

glorious.  When  the  maid  carried  off  the  tray, 
Betty  clasped  her  knees  and  mused.  The  shock 
of  that  moment,  when  she  turned  to  find  her 
father  on  the  adjacent  cot!  Magnificent!  Even 
his  enemy  had  admitted  it.  Mansfield  Comes 
Home.  It  was  odd  how  that  phrase  clung.  The 
real  significance  escaped  her.  It  was  a  caption. 
The  line  was  not  repeated  in  the  body  of  the 
editorial. 

She  saw  the  mail  on  the  bed  stand  and  reached 
for  it.  Fate  decided  that  she  should  open  the 
large  envelope  first.  Newspaper  clippings.  She 
spread  them  apart,  fan-wise.  She  caught  a  single 
line  in  the  top  clipping — "The  Lord  of  Polygon 
Hill  is  always  safely  within  the  law."  She  made 
as  though  to  fling  from  her  the  offending  things; 
but  presently  they  took  upon  themselves  the  sin- 
ister fascination  of  the  door  to  Bluebeard's  cham- 
ber. One  by  one  she  read  them.  Some  of  them 
mentioned  her  father  directly;  some  of  them  spoke 
of  him  as  the  Lord  of  Polygon  Hill. 

Throttler  of  efficiency  in  the  fire  and  police 
departments. 

Railway  franchises,  non-taxable,  thereby  adding 
to  the  burdens  of  the  poor. 

Twenty  gin-mills  owned  by  proxy. 

Apartment  houses  in  the  district  of  ill-repute. 
Owned  under  other  names. 


248         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

Seven  thousand  employees  who  were  forced  to 
vote  as  Mansfield  willed  or  lose  their  jobs,  despite 
the  secret  ballot. 

Money -mad.     Millions  and  wants  more. 

The  war  means  only  so  much  more  profit. 

Opposed  the  employers'  liability  act. 

Fought  direct  primaries. 

Holds  aloof  on  the  child-labour  problem. 

Fought  the  income  tax. 

One  by  one  Betty  read  them,  now  burning  with 
fury,  now  cold  with  implacable  hate.  She  came 
to  the  last  clipping.  It  was  the  story  of  an  inven- 
tor whom  her  father  had  betrayed  and  permitted 
to  die  a  pauper;  a  terrible  narrative  of  the  ruth- 
lessness  of  business,  of  the  callosity  of  self-interest; 
written  by  someone  who  knew  the  exact  meaning 
of  words,  who  was  master  of  clarity,  who  knew 
when  and  how  to  strike  emotionalism  (Cathewe 
himself  had  written  this  article) .  The  girl  realized 
at  once  that  this  was  not  political.  There  was  a 
clarion  ring  of  truth  here  that  was  inescapable. 
And  yet  she  knew  it  could  not  be  true.  Her 
father,  who  had  risked  his  life  last  night  to  save 
three  little  children;  her  brave  father,  whose  hand 
would  henceforth  be  crippled  and  whose  face  would 
be  terribly  scarred!  It  could  not  be. 

A  picture  crept  into  her  mind,  insidiously, 
though  she  fought  it:  a  bleak,  cold  room  with 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        249 

broken  walls  and  bare  floor  and  windows  stuffed 
with  paper,  and  the  quiet,  broken  thing  on  the 
bed.  Joined  to  this  picture,  her  father  on  his  cot; 
side  by  side  with  this  sinister  indictment,  the 
unstinted  praise — "Mansfield  Comes  Home." 

The  truth!  For  her  honest  mind  could  no 
longer  dismiss  these  facts  as  the  venom  of  a  po- 
litical antagonist.  The  truth!  To  whom  might 
she  go?  Not  to  her  father  in  his  present  critical 
condition  .  .  .  Maddox!  The  doctor  would 
not  lie  to  his  God-child;  he  would  translate  this 
mystery.  She  flung  herself  out  of  bed  and  ran  to 
the  extension  telephone.  She  caught  the  doctor 
just  as  he  was  starting  out  for  the  hospitals;  for 
all  the  doctors  in  town  were  in  demand  this  day. 
Yes;  he  could  give  her  a  few  minutes,  but  he  was 
hard  pressed. 

She  was  standing  by  one  of  the  living-room 
windows  when  the  old  chariot  careened  up  the 
drive.  She  ran  to  the  door  herself,  caught  him 
by  the  sleeve,  and  hurried  him  into  the  living  room. 

"How's  Dunleigh?"  he  gasped.  What  was 
the  matter  with  the  child?  This  was  not  the  pallor 
of  weariness.  "You  ought  to  be  in  bed,"  he  added. 

She  pushed  him  into  a  chair  and  laid  the  clip- 
pings on  his  knee.  "Read  them,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  the  clippings,  much  astonished. 
He  looked  them  over,  or  pretended  to,  and  got  a 


250         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

glimmer  of  this  double  tragedy.  In  an  hour  like 
this! 

"Where  did  you  get  them?" 

"  They  came  this  morning,  anonymously.  Read 
them." 

But  Maddox  got  up  and  deposited  the  clippings 
in  her  lap.  Then  he  walked  over  to  a  window, 
came  back,  and  faced  her. 

"Are  they  true?  Just  that  one  about  the  in- 
ventor. We  won't  bother  about  the  others.  Is 
that  true?" 

"Did  you  read  the  editorial  in  the  Herald  this 
morning?" 

"I  read  that.  But  is  this  true?  Did  my  father 
let  a  human  being  die  like  that?" 

"All  right.  It's  my  business — curing  bodies 
and  curing  minds.  Yes;  all  these  things  are  true, 
little  lady.  But  what  your  father  did  last  night 
cleans  the  slate,  in  the  eyes  of  God  as  well  as  man. 
You  baby!  Don't  you  dare  sit  in  judgment  on 
your  father  at  this  moment.  He  is  a  man,  and 
I'm  proud  to  be  his  friend.  He  has  been  alone. 
He  never  knew  what  love  was  until  you  came  into 
his  life.  He  is  a  strong  man,  and  strong  men, 
untempered  by  love,  are  ruthless.  I  have  seen 
what  you  could  not  see — the  change.  The  mo- 
ment he  discovered  he  loved  you,  he  wanted  to 
wipe  out  the  past.  Whatever  you  wanted  done, 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        251 

he  did;  but  he  went  at  it  in  a  circuitous  manner 
for  fear  you  might  learn  the  truth  before  he  had 
proved  himself.  He  loves  you.  This  love  has 
cleared  his  vision  and  humanized  him.  I  know. 
A  mind  so  clean  and  pure  as  yours  becomes  hor- 
rified, naturally.  You  were  both  yourselves  last 
night — your  real  selves.  He  is  going  on  doing 
fine  and  noble  things;  so  are  you.  And  the  noblest 
thing  you  can  do  is  never  to  let  him  know.  The 
soul  of  him  was  all  right;  it  was  only  the  shell  that 
was  bad;  and  that  has  been  knocked  off.  He 
will  never  know  that  you  know;  and  he  will  be 
happy." 

Betty  gathered  the  clippings  in  her  hand  and 
carried  them  to  the  fire. 

"That's  it;  and  throw  recollection  along  with 
them.  They  will  never  again  call  him  the  Lord 
of  Polygon  Hill.  Betty,  he  had  travelled  to  the 
point  where  he  didn't  know  any  better.  Then 
you  came.  You  are  going  to  forgive  him  besides? " 

"Oh,  yes.  I  love  him;  and  I  understand  now. 
Never  shall  he  know  that  I  know.  I  have  always 
loved  him,  since  I  was  a  little  child.  There  wasn't 
anybody  else  for  me  to  love."  A  pause,  and  rather 
shyly  she  asked:  "What  did  Brandon  Cathewe 
mean  when  he  wrote  'Mansfield  Comes  Home'?" 

"What  I've  just  been  telling  you:  that  your 
father  has  found  himself  through  you." 


252         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"And  I  ...  I  have  misjudged  Brandon 
Cathewe?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  A  few  hundred  years  ago  he 
would  be  wearing  a  surtout  with  a  cross  on  it  and 
he  would  be  outside  the  Wall  of  Jerusalem.  I 
love  that  boy.  I  wish  God  had  given  me  a  son 
like  him.  And  your  father  admires  him  secretly. 
He  tried  to  avoid  you  because  he  didn't  want  you 
to  know  him  as  he  is.  It  would  have  made  you 
doubt  your  father.  You  have  met  his  mother.  He 
couldn't  be  very  bad  with  such  a  mother.  He 
misjudged  you,  too.  He  thought  you  had  de- 
serted France;  that  you  were  only  a  giddy  butter- 

fly." 

"Whereas  ...  I  am  an  ant.  Who  is 
he,  really?  From  where  does  he  come?  " 

"There's  only  one  way  to  find  that  out.  Go  to 
his  mother." 

"Go  to  his  mother,"  repeated  Betty,  dreamily. 
"But  I  am  keeping  you  from  your  patients!" 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  called  me  in.  I  don't 
know  who  could  have  mailed  you  those  clippings, 
but  he's  done  a  fine  service  for  us  all.  Good-bye, 
little  lady.  And  remember !" 

"I  shan't  forget  .  .  .  my  father,  be- 
cause he  loves  me!"  Her  eyes  glistened  with 
tears. 

The    doctor   fumbled    with    his    handkerchief, 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        253 

rubbed  his  nose  violently,  snatched  up  his  famous 
black  bag,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Betty  remained  motionless  for  a  space.  A  new 
thought  had  occurred  to  her.  Brandon  Cathewe. 
She  would  give  him  back  his  newspaper.  Having 
come  to  this  decision,  she  returned  to  her  room. 
It  was  then  she  espied  once  more  Nancy's  letter. 
This  time  she  opened  it. 

It  had  the  appearance  of  a  page  of  manuscript 
that  had  been  crumpled  and  smoothed  out.  There 
was  a  signature  scrawled  across  its  face.  She 
had  to  approach  a  window  to  decipher  this  scrawl: 
"From  George  Cottar  to  Nancy  Maddox,  his 
friend."  Cottar?  Nancy  knew  Cottar?  Betty 
lowered  the  sheet  and  stared  off,  as  if  out  there, 
up  from  the  horizon,  the  solution  would  presently 
become  manifest.  Cottar.  Nancy  had  never  told 
her  that  she  knew  Cottar.  To  keep  a  secret  like 
this!  That  was  so  unlike  Nancy.  And  why  had 
Nancy  given  the  sheet  to  her,  with  instructions 
which  had  struck  her  curiously  at  the  tune? 
George  Cottar,  the  novelist;  and  Nancy  knew  him! 

She  raised  the  sheet  again.  Probably  some 
phrase  Nancy  wanted  her  to  read  and  pass  judg- 
ment on.  Now  it  came  to  her,  upon  this  second 
perusal,  that  the  handwriting,  though  in  lead  was 
strangely  familiar.  Then  she  came  upon  a  little 
cross  where  a  period  should  have  been. 


854         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

There  fell  upon  her  senses  a  roaring  like  the 
falling  of  mighty  waters.  Until  this  died  away, 
she  was  powerless  to  move.  When  she  could 
impart  mobility  to  her  feet,  with  her  heart  flutter- 
ing wildly  she  ran  to  the  precious  Florentine  box. 
She  opened  a  letter  and  laid  it  beside  the  sheet 
of  manuscript.  The  same  hand  had  written  them 
both. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

THAT  which  followed  was  rather  an  inco- 
herent adventure.  Betty  had  passed 
through  a  series  of  tremendous  emotions, 
and  she  had  not  recovered  her  poise.  Ordinarily 
she  would  not  have  rushed  off  to  Nancy's  tem- 
pestuously. But  a  great  deal  of  her  world  had 
been  knocked  from  under,  and  she  desperately 
wanted  all  trembling  things  laid  for  good.  She 
wanted  her  illusions  smashed,  all  of  them,  so  that 
when  she  started  life  anew  the  future  would  be 
reasonably  clear.  Either  George  Cottar  had 
played  with  her,  or  he  hadn't.  Either  he  was 
young  and  free,  or  he  wasn't.  The  question  must 
never  arise  again  to  trouble  her;  it  must  be  settled 
within  this  hour. 

When  the  Maddox  door  opened  to  admit  her, 
Betty  flew  past  the  astonished  maid,  never  pausing 
to  inquire  if  Nancy  were  at  home. 

"Nancy?"  she  cried,  running  from  room  to 
room.  "Nancy?'* 

The  maid,  rather  inclined  toward  the  belief 
that  Miss  Mansfield  was  a  bit  out  of  her  head 
from  the  exertions  of  the  previous  night,  gave 

255 


256         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

chase  resolutely,  catching  the  visitor  by  the  arm 
as  she  was  about  to  mount  the  stairs. 

"Miss  Nancy  is  rolling  bandages  in  the  office. 
Won't  you  please  be  seated  until  I  call  her?  " 

Betty  flung  herself  free  and  rushed  into  the 
official  side  of  the  house.  Nancy,  having  felt  the 
jar  of  running  feet,  entered  the  waiting  room  at 
the  same  time  as  Betty. 

"Oh,  Nancy!" 

"Why,  Betty,  you  ought  to  be  in  bed! " 

"Where  can  I  find  him?" 

"You  want  father?" 

"No,  no!  I  want  George  Cottar — the  man  who 
wrote  those  letters ! " 

"It  is  really  serious,  then?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you?  I  must  see  him.  I  want 
all  my  disillusions  over  with.  I  want  to  tear  him 
out  of  my  heart  and  out  of  my  mind  ...  or 
find  if  he  has  really  been  thereat  all!  .  .  .  You 
must  think  me  quite  mad.  I  am,  at  this  moment. 
I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  what  he's  like;  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  where  he  is." 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,  with  all  you've  gone 
through."  Nancy  opened  her  arms. 

"I've  gone  through  so  much!  .  .  .  Things 
I  can't  tell  you.  I  want  no  more  mysteries,  no 
more  puzzles.  .  .  .  I'm  tired!"  And  Betty 
laid  her  head  on  Nancy's  shoulder. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        257 

"The Brushwood  Boy— George  Cottar." 

"  Why  did  he  give  me  up?  " 

"Circumstance  was  a  two-edged  sword;  it  cut 
both  ways.  Do  you  know  that  the  whole  town 
is  ringing  with  the  praise  of  you  and  your  father? 
His  poor  face  and  hand!  And  you! — leaving  the 
way  you  did!  You  must  have  ruined  that  sable 
coat." 

"I  did.  Don't  tantalize  me.  You  gave  me 
that  sheet  of  manuscript  so  that  I  would  recognize 
the  writing  and  compare  it  with  my  letters.  But 
how  did  you  suspect?" 

"I  didn't.     I  knew." 

"And  you  sent  it  to  me.     .     .     ." 

"Because  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  I 
should  keep  the  truth  from  you,  once  I  knew  it. 
But  I'll  want  that  sheet  back.  One  doesn't  meet  a 
celebrated  author  every  day.  What  did  you  want 
to  see  father  about?  " 

"I     .     .     .     I  know  everything,  now,  Nancy." 

"You  understand?  I  mean,  you  understand 
the  marvellous  change  you  have  wrought  in  your 
father?" 

Betty  drew  back,  her  chin  up.  "I  think  he  is 
glorious!  .  .  .  But  I  was  stricken  with  horror 
until  your  father  came.  If  I  had  to  have  any  other 
father  than  my  own,  I'd  want  yours.  My  fault 
was  that  I  had  put  my  father  up  a  little  too  high. 


258         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

I  had  built  a  fairy  story  for  myself  and  lived  in  it. 
I  love  him;  but  it  isn't  with  the  love  of  yesterday. 
To-day  I  am  human  myself.  Did  you  know  Cot- 
tar when  we  were  in  Washington?  " 

"No.     Quite  recently,  and  by  accident." 

"But  you  have  not  been  away  since  then!  .  .  . 
He  is  here,  in  Bannister! " 

"  I'm  a  wretch,  Betty !     Come  with  me." 

Nancy  led  the  way  into  the  living  room  and 
stopped  only  when  she  reached  a  window  from 
which  the  street  was  to  be  seen. 

"What  do  you  see  from  this  window?  "  she  asked. 

"From  here?  I  seem  to  be  very  stupid,  for  I 
don't  see  anything." 

"See,  then,  that  temple  of  fine  dreams  and 
music — the  little  white  house  with  the  picket  fence. 
For  the  man  who  wrote  those  letters  to  you,  and 
George  Cottar,  and  Brandon  Cathewe — they  are 
one,  Betty.  And  I  can  quite  understand  why  you 
never  suspected.  Do  you  know  what  I  should  do 
if  I  were  you?  I'd  run  across  as  fast  as  I  could. 
He  isn't  there.  I  saw  him  leave  for  his  office  about 
an  hour  ago.  But  his  mother  will  receive  you.  I 
want  but  one  promise :  that  you  will  never  tell  him 
I  betrayed  him.  Run,  dear,  run!  Nothing  lasts 
very  long  in  this  workaday  world.  Run ! " 

Betty  never  had  any  clear  recollection  of  what 
happened  between  the  moment  of  this  astounding 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        259 

revelation  and  her  advent  upon  the  path  to  the 
street.  Foggily  she  retained  the  impression  that 
Nancy  had  fairly  pushed  her  forth.  The  cold, 
fresh  air,  blowing  into  her  face,  stabilized  her 
wavering  thoughts.  She  could  not  enter  that 
house  now.  Brandon  Cathewe!  Her  memory 
revived  that  scene  upon  the  hill:  his  tenderness  to 
Sandy,  his  amusing  comments,  the  gravity  with 
which  he  discussed  the  life  of  the  ant.  Fabre  hi 
the  original,  and  the  truth  had  gone  over  her  head! 
She  had  known  that  he  was  not  of  Bannister;  and 
yet  that  had  suggested  nothing.  The  fineness  of 
his  mind,  his  air  of  breeding,  the  wonderful  crea- 
ture who  called  him  Sonny!  .  .  .  She  had  been 
totally  blind! 

From  behind  her  curtain  Nancy  watched.  In 
no  sense  was  this  act  one  of  espionage.  There  was 
on  her  face  that  serenity  of  expression  which  is  the 
flower  of  renunciation.  A  ghost — a  very  dim 
ghost — of  a  smile  moved  her  lips.  She  could  very 
well  visualize  the  quandary  in  which  Betty  found 
herself.  Social  convention  nowadays  is  less  an 
acquisition  than  a  legacy;  and  Nancy  understood 
that  what  was  now  confusing  her  friend  was  this 
invisible  wall.  Would  she  recognize  it  as  an 
impasse,  or  would  she  plunge  through  it?  And 
there  was  besides  the  lingering  pall  of  dazzlement. 

She  saw  Betty  hurry  to  the  sidewalk.     But 


260         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

once  there  it  became  evident  that  the  impellent 
lost  its  force.  Betty  halted;  she  looked  up  and 
down  the  street,  back  at  the  window,  then  across 
the  street.  At  length,  with  a  step  which  seemed  to 
acquire  dignity  as  it  progressed,  Betty  crossed  the 
street,  opened  the  gate  and  latched  it  behind  her, 
and  approached  the  door. 

Nancy  laughed.  There  is  no  way  of  approaching 
this  laughter  analytically,  since  Nancy  herself  did 
not  know  why  it  had  sprung  past  her  lips.  She 
returned  to  the  consultation  office,  to  her  work. 
Bandage  after  bandage  she  rolled.  Her  father 
would  need  them  all  on  his  rounds  that  night. 
Occasionally  she  stopped  work  and  let  her  gaze 
wander  about  this  smelly  but  immaculate  room, 
with  its  white  enamelled  woodwork  and  iron,  its 
glass  cases  filled  with  glittering  instruments,  its 
stands  with  glass  tops.  It  quite  fit  her  mood,  this 
little  white  cabinet  of  mercy  and  pain. 

Happiness,  thought  Betty.  And  what  if  she 
let  it  slip  past  for  the  want  of  a  little  courage  to 
reach  out  for  it?  Who  or  what  had  installed  in  her 
this  distaste  to  go  forward  with  the  adventure, 
this  subtle  acknowledgment  of  rules  of  conduct 
which  one  person  obeyed  simply  because  another 
had  previously  obeyed  them? 

She  had  no   plan,  no  marshalled   words   and 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        261 

phrases.  She  stepped  into  the  hallway  as  she 
would  have  stepped  into  a  mirror-maze,  trusting 
instinct  to  carry  her  through.  But  one  thing  she 
did  know:  that  all  depended  upon  her  reception. 

Mrs.  Cathewe  came  forward,  and,  with  that 
interpretative  insight  which  was  the  quality  of  her 
genius,  gathered  the  girl  in  her  arms.  Not  a  word; 
just  took  Betty  in  her  arms  and  held  her.  In- 
stantly Betty  knew  that  never  again  would  there 
be  walls.  Thus  they  stood  for  three  or  four 
minutes. 

"This  is  the  way  I  would  have  had  you  come. 
No  roundabout  and  winding  paths — straight  to 
the  fount.  And  who  but  Sonny's  mother  shall 
tell  you  who  and  what  Sonny  is?" 

"There  is  so  much  to  ask." 

"So  much  to  tell.  Sonny  is  always  right. 
Genius  has  an  eye  like  one  of  those  chemical  rays: 
nothing  may  hide  from  it.  And  yet,  until  he  met 
you  on  the  hill  that  day,  he  doubted  his  vision. 
Come  with  me.  What  a  wonder-child  you  are ! " 

When  they  were  seated  upon  the  divan,  Betty 
locked  her  fingers  tightly  and  began. 

"I  did  not  know  until  last  night  that  he  was  the 
editor  of  the  Herald.  I  was  very  stupid  through 
it  all.  Even  your  avoidance  of  giving  me  your 
name  did  not  illuminate  a  corner  of  the  puzzle. 
Then  last  night  at  Nancy's  the  truth  came  out. 


262         Tlie  Man  With  Three  Names 

I  was  hard  and  bitter  to  him.     I  did  not  know 
then  that  my  father.     .     .     ." 

A  hand  flew  toward  her  lips.  "You  shall  not 
say  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Cathewe.  "Your  father  was 
magnificent  last  night.  What  is  the  past  against 
an  hour  like  that?  The  lives  of  three  little 
children  at  the  risk  of  his  own!  There  is  not 
a  soul  in  Bannister  this  day  that  isn't  the  better 
for  the  reading  of  the  unselfish  deed.  His  sur- 
render to  you  through  love  is  the  most  beautiful 
thing  I  ever  heard.  And  you  bought  Sonny's 
newspaper  from  under  him,  to  defend  your  father! 
You  are  a  pair  of  lions.  You  should  have  heard 
Sonny  praise  you  both.  He  was  very  happy  over 
it." 

"Happy!" 

"Yes.  A  phase  of  his  task  in  life  has  come  to  a 
happy  ending.  We  can  leave  Bannister  now, 
content." 

"Leave  Bannister? — because  I  told  him  that 
after  January  he  ...  No,  no !  He  shall  have 
his  newspaper  back.  He  shall  go  on  with  his  work. 
Don't  you  understand  ?  I  didn't  know. ' ' 

"Sonny  will  be  glad.  He  found  himself  here. 
The  blind  alleys  he's  been  in  and  out  of,  searching 
for  the  way!" 

"Did  .  .  .  did  he  ever  tell  you  about  some 
letters  he  wrote  to  me?" 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        263 

"Yes.  Between  Sonny  and  me  there  are  no 
secrets." 

"Did  he  mean  what  he  wrote?"  asked  Betty, 
miserable  with  shame. 

"With  every  drop  of  blood  in  him,  with  every 
fibre  of  his  manhood!" 

Betty  broke  down  completely.  The  taut  string 
had  snapped.  But  the  mothering  she  received 
was  compensation.  All  her  life  she  wanted  arms 
like  these. 

"There  is  good  in  everybody,"  presently  began 
the  owner  of  those  arms.  "There  was  good  in  the 
man  who  broke  my  heart  and  nearly  ruined 
Sonny — his  father.  For  there  are  still  rough  spots 
in  the  road.  Will  you  stand  the  test?  Will  you 
stop  this  side,  or  will  you  go  on?  It  will  take  the 
rarest  kind  of  courage — moral.  For  the  hour  has 
come  when  you  must  know  everything.  Cathewe 
was  my  maiden  name.  There  was  always  the 
possibility,  however,  of  running  across  someone 
who  had  known  me  under  the  other  name." 

"Where  did  he  first  see  me?" 

Betty  could  not  see  the  smile  of  tender  irony 
that  flashed  across  the  lips  of  the  woman  who 
was  about  to  recount  for  the  second  time  the  drab 
tragedy  of  her  life.  Romance!  What  were  yes- 
terdays to  this  child  who  hungered  for  to-morrows? 

"He  saw  you  in  London  one  night,  at  the  Savoy 


264         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

restaurant.  The  following  afternoon  you  went 
aboard  the  same  ship." 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  that  I  had  seen  him  some- 
where. He  didn't  know  who  I  was?" 

"Not  at  that  time." 

"Just  saw  me!" — in  wonder. 

"Just  that.  He  went  to  your  father  the  next 
morning  and  asked  if  he  might  pay  court  to  you. 
Imagine  it!  He  wore  old  clothes  and  was  living 
with  the  steerage  passengers  to  get  colour  for  his 
new  book.  Your  father  looked  upon  the  affair  as  a 
great  joke,  not  being  able  to  gauge  Sonny.  He 
made  a  sardonic  proposal,  and  Sonny  accepted  it. 
He  was  to  come  to  Bannister  and  make  a  name  for 
himself.  He  was  never  to  seek  you  in  any  fashion. 
So  Sonny  wrote  you  those  letters,  hoping  to  trap 
your  interest  and  hold  it  while  he  was  fighting  his 
way  to  you.  And  I  came  to  keep  him  company. 
What  are  obstacles  to  a  man  like  that?  But  soon 
the  road  took  a  baffling  and  sinister  twist.  He 
bought  the  Herald  as  a  means  of  reaching  you; 
borrowed  the  purchase  money  from  a  friend,  the 
security  being  all  I  had  in  the  world — a  small  cot- 
ton plantation.  The  newspaper  presently  became 
an  obligation;  and  recognizing  that,  he  saw  that  he 
must  give  you  up." 

"I  understand.  I  searched  the  crowds  for  him. 
I  studied  every  new  face  I  saw;  strained  my  ears 


TJie  Man  With  Three  Names        265 

for  some  sign.  And  even  now,  but  for  Nancy,  I'd 
never  have  known!  Do  you  know,  I  loved  you 
that  first  night.  The  thought  of  you  kept  drawing 
me;  and  I  came  again,  uninvited." 

"I  tried  to  make  you  love  me."  There  was  a 
pause.  "Why  must  the  innocent  always  suffer 
with  the  guilty?  What  had  Sonny  and  I  done 
that  the  black  shadow  of  the  name  that  is  legally 
ours  must  steal  away  our  sunshine  always?  The 
name  of  Digby  Hallo  well  will  mean  nothing  to  you; 
but  your  father  would  recall  it.  My  husband  was 
a  thief,  Betty,  and  he  died  in  prison.  A  thief — the 
most  unforgivable  kind.  When  a  burglar  enters  a 
house  he  at  least  risks  his  life.  My  husband  did 
not  risk  his;  he  did  not  even  risk  his  comfort.  He 
sat  in  a  beautiful  office  and  wove  his  spider  web  for 
the  poor  and  ignorant,  who  had  none  to  advise 
them.  .  .  .  Did  you  shudder  then?" 

Betty  did  not  answer. 

"Ah!  Already  the  obstacles  in  the  road  terrify 
you.  Your  father.  .  .  ." 

"And  shall  my  father  sit  in  judgment  on 
Sonny's?"  asked  Betty,  quietly.  "The  shudder 
was  instinctive.  It  is  the  second  time  to-day  I 
have  shuddered.  But  go  on." 

"I  was  born  in  the  South;  but  at  the  age  of  ten 
I  was  taken  to  Europe  by  an  aunt  who  saw  that 
there  was  music  in  me,  that  I  possessed  inter- 


266         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

pretative  genius.  My  parents  were  dead.  My 
inheritance  was  a  small  but  lucrative  cotton 
plantation.  I  studied  in  Paris,  Berlin,  Leipzic, 
Vienna.  At  musicales  and  soirees  I  became 
fairly  well  known.  I  was  preparing  for  concert 
work.  All  the  masters  said  that  I  had  a  brilliant 
future.  When  my  aunt  died,  the  annuity  which 
supported  us  ceased  automatically,  but  most  of  the 
beautiful  things  you  see  in  this  room  fell  to  me. 
My  own  inheritance,  untouched  all  those  years, 
had  compounded.  So  I  had  enough  for  the 
necessities  of  life,  and  a  little  amusement  besides. 
Somehow  I  had  lost  America.  I  had  no  desire  to 
return.  I  was  in  the  Volksgarten  in  Vienna  one 
afternoon  when  a  very  handsome  man  in  the  early 
thirties  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  me.  Apparently 
he  was  oblivious  to  my  propinquity.  Some 
children  were  playing  near  by.  One  of  them 
stumbled  and  fell,  and  the  stranger  sprang  to  its 
assistance,  brushing  the  bruised  knees.  'Poor 
little  codger!'  he  said  in  English;  and  at  once  I 
knew  that  he  was  an  American.  I  was  alone  in  the 
world,  eighteen,  and  bubbling  with  romance.  I 
met  him  again  and  again.  Oh,  I  loved  him.  He 
was  charming.  He  was  mad  about  children;  he 
was  genuinely  fond  of  music,  paintings,  books. 
And  his  love  for  me  was  the  one  great,  honest  thing 
in  his  life.  It  wouldn't  have  been  so  hard  otherwise. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        267 

We  were  married.  Remember,  there  was  no  one 
to  advise  me.  I  did  not  want  to  return  to  America. 
My  world  was  the  musical  centres  of  Europe.  So 
he  agreed  to  clear  up  his  affairs — he  was  a  broker — 
as  soon  as  he  reasonably  could,  and  come  to  Europe 
to  live." 

The  telephone  bell  rang  sharply,  but  neither  of 
them  heard  it. 

"Sonny  came.  There  followed  four  wonderful 
summers.  Digby  would  arrive  in  May  and  go 
back  in  October.  The  crash  came  the  fourth 
winter.  He  was  arrested  for  selling  bogus  oil  and 
mining  stock.  Here  in  America  it  was  the  news- 
paper sensation  of  the  day.  The  shock  nearly 
drove  me  crazy.  Only  the  thought  of  Sonny 
saved  me.  Each  time  he  came  to  Europe,  Digby 
brought  a  fortune  in  stocks  and  bonds,  which 
were  turned  into  French  consols  and  British  Rands 
and  assigned  unrestrictedly  to  me.  Do  you  com- 
prehend the  cunning?  To  put  all  these  ill-gotten 
gains  where  the  United  States  could  not  possibly 
touch  them!  But  he  overreached.  He  was  al- 
ready in  prison  when  the  news  came.  I  went  to 
him  as  fast  as  I  could,  for  I  had  known  only  the 
good  in  him,  and  believed  that  there  was  some 
terrible  mistake,  some  misdirection  of  justice.  It 
often  comes  to  me  that  if  I  had  gone  back  with 
him  the  first  time,  I  might  have  seen  what  was 


268         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

going  on  and  saved  him.  My  very  selfishness 
served  as  a  lure  to  drive  him  on.  He  caught 
pneumonia  in  prison  and  died  before  I  could  get 
to  him." 

"  Too  late  to  forgive  him? " 

"Would  you  have  forgiven  him?" 

"Didn't  you?" 

"Yes.  He  had  my  cable  in  his  hand  when  he 
died.  Until  I  reached  Liverpool,  I  was  absolutely 
in  the  dark.  From  Vienna  to  Liverpool,  without 
a  glimmer  of  the  truth !  I  cabled  him  that  I  was 
coming,  that  I  forgave  him.  Even  to  this  day  I  am 
torn.  I  never  knew  in  the  least  this  other  man;  I 
had  known  only  the  handsome  lover,  the  gay  and 
charming  father  of  Sonny.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
stepped  out  of  the  room  and  vanished,  and  that 
somebody  had  stolen  and  defiled  his  name. 
Broken,  bewildered,  and  disillusioned  I  returned 
to  Europe.  Over  there  no  one  would  know.  I 
could  not  restore  the  money  to  the  poor  things  who 
had  been  robbed.  I  would  have  been  the  victim  of 
colossal  impositions,  so  an  attorney  said.  But  I 
never  touched  a  penny  of  it.  It  went  on  growing, 
naturally,  and  began  to  terrify  me.  It  was  like 
some  prehistoric  monster  that  had  grown  up  over- 
night in  my  house,  and  there  was  no  way  out  for 
him  without  crumbling  the  edifice.  I  came  to  a 
decision  at  last.  Sonny  must  have  his  say.  But 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        269 

he  should  not  be  told  until  he  was  old  enough  to 
keep  his  balance.  Three  millions,  and  a  world 
before  him:  temptation.  Nevertheless,  he  should 
have  his  say." 

Betty  reached  blindly  for  the  speaker's  hand, 
found  it,  and  pressed  it  strongly. 

"Vienna  became  intolerable — the  associations. 
So  I  bought  a  small  villa  just  outside  of  Florence, 
on  the  road  to  Fiesole,  and  devoted  myself  to 
Sonny's  education.  I  never  ceased  to  strike  upon 
one  key  that  he  was  American.  For  in  the  end  I 
wanted  him  to  come  to  America  and  make  that 
name  worthy  again.  After  all,  a  name  is  nothing. 
It  is  what  you  do  under  it.  I  might  have  gone  on 
the  concert  stage,  but  all  my  ambition  was  dead. 

So  while  he  studied,  I  taught  music  and 
languages  so  that  he  would  have  a  little  money 
when  he  came  of  age.  When  he  was  twenty  I  told 
him  the  story.  I  told  him  what  his  name  was,  for 
we  were  then  using  Cathewe.  I  added  that  if  he  so 
willed,  he  could  live  all  his  days  in  luxury,  have  all 
his  whims  gratified.  Without  a  word,  he  walked 
out  into  the  little  garden,  and  he  spent  the  night 
there,  walking.  I  could  see  him  in  the  moonlight 
from  my  bedroom  window.  He  came  to  me  at 
dawn.  'Little  mother,  I'll  take  the  burden  on 
these  shoulders .  I'll  find  some  way  to  give  it  back . 
I've  got  to  take  the  name  and  make  it  clean  again. 


270         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

To  give  these  millions  indirectly  to  the  poor,  to 
spend  it  in  the  interest  of  those  human  beings  who 
know  not  how  to  defend  themselves!'  He  put 
his  arms  around  me;  and  I  knew  then  that  I 
possessed  a  son  beyond  the  dreams  of  mother- 
hood." 

"I  understand  now,"  said  Betty,  softly,  "what 
Doctor  Maddox  meant  when  he  said  your  son 
should  be  wearing  a  white  surtout  with  a  cross  on  it." 

The  mother  sighed.  She  had  at  least  won  the 
daughter;  but  there  was  still  a  grim  rock  in  the 
path.  It  would  take  a  superman  to  overlook  the 
blood  of  Digby  Hallowell. 

"Sonny  took  the  funds  to  New  York.  He  went 
to  a  great  banker,  who  had  once  been  my  father's 
friend,  and  outlined  his  plans.  The  account  was 
accepted;  and  the  name  of  Hallowell  went  upon  the 
books.  I  remained  in  Italy.  He  had  his  career  to 
make;  and  he  was  thoroughly  American  in  his 
outlook.  Eventually  he  became  a  reporter  on 
one  of  the  great  newspapers,  and  discovered  that 
he  could  write.  A  month  each  summer  he  spent 
with  me;  he  was  at  work  on  his  second  novel  when 
he  saw  you." 

"George  Cottar?" 

"A  brushwood  boy.  Isn't  he?  Here  in  Ban- 
nister he  found  the  path  he  had  been  seeking.  His 
dreams  became  substances.  He  could  have  turned 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        271 

over  those  millions  to  France  and  Belgium  and 
been  rid  of  the  incubus  at  once.  But  Sonny  has 
ideas.  This  money  belonged  to  Americans,  and  it 
should  flow  back  to  them.  To  him  the  Herald  is  a 
trust;  it  belongs  to  the  poor  of  Bannister.  But 
he  is  still  the  son  of  a  thief." 

"And  I  am  the  daughter  of  Dunleigh  Mans- 
field. Play  for  me!  I  want  music,  brilliant 
music,  tremendous  crashes  of  melody.  If  you  play 
anything  softly,  I  shall  cry!" 

She  led  the  mother  to  the  piano.  Then  she 
seized  a  Hindu  pillow — such  as  Scheherezade  might 
have  curled  upon — and  dropped  it  on  the  floor,  sat, 
and  rested  her  head  against  a  piano  leg. 

"God  sometimes  lets  people  understand  each 
other;  doesn't  He?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CATHEWE  sat  in  his  official  swivel  chair  and 
teetered,  his  fingers  locked  under  his  chin. 
He  had  read  such  proofs  as  he  could  find, 
skimmed  through  the  rival  sheet,  dictated  his 
correspondence;  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  think.  One  thought  was  predominant,  not 
submersible.  As  often  as  he  thrust  it  down,  as 
often  it  returned.  His  philosophy  was  inutile. 
He  bowed  to  a  primal  fact,  that  the  only  perfect 
philosophy  is  that  which  is  applicable  to  the  other 
fellow's  case.  Having  human  faults,  he  had  failed 
in  a  great  emprise. 

It  wasn't  the  thought  of  losing  Betty.  One 
could  not  lose  something  one  never  had  possessed. 
He  had  laid  away  that  dream  in  lavender  the 
moment  he  had  discovered  Mansfield's  trail. 
Upon  this  subject  his  philosophy  had  served;  he 
had  had  months  of  stern  thinking  to  fortify  this 
acceptancy  of  the  inevitable.  Still,  the  love  and 
the  hurt  were  there.  What  had  happened  was  this : 
by  a  singular  species  of  blindness  he  had  closed  the 
way  out.  He  had  had  every  moral  right  to  use  the 
tainted  fund  in  relation  to  the  purchase  of  the 

272 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        273 

Herald.  He  should  not  have  hesitated  an  instant. 
It  was  one  of  the  channels  through  which  the  fund 
was  to  flow  back  to  the  poor.  It  constituted  a 
trust;  and  by  his  talent  and  energy  it  had  already 
become  a  remarkable  court  of  appeal  for  the  poor 
of  Bannister.  In  a  way,  he  had  betrayed  this 
trust.  Subconsciously,  he  had  been  endeavouring  to 
make  the  Herald  his  own,  a  kind  of  monument  to 
himself.  And  he  had  not  sensed  it  clearly  until 
this  hour.  He  had  begun  to  look  upon  himself  as  a 
superman;  and  here  he  was,  quite  as  humanly  de- 
ficient as  any  of  his  neighbours. 

To  move  on — whither?  He  had  transplanted 
himself  in  Bannister  and  taken  root  healthily. 
Now  he  must  dig  himself  up  and  go  on,  the  mill- 
stone still  around  his  neck.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  go  forward  with  hope  and  courage.  Never 
again  would  there  be  such  an  opportunity.  On 
the  threshold  of  turning  his  dreams  into  realities, 
and  to  have  betrayed  himself!  He  was  this  day  a 
minority  stockholder;  his  usefulness  was  drawing 
to  a  close. 

The  telephone  buzzed. 

"Hello!"  he  called,  rather  grateful  for  the 
diversion. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Cathewe  on  the  wire?"  asked  a 
woman's  voice. 

"Yes." 


274         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"This  is  the  city  hospital.  Mr.  Mansfield 
wants  to  see  you  immediately.  He  instructed 
me  to  emphasize  the  importance  of  this  interview.'* 

"Tell  him  I  shall  be  lip  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a 
taxi  around." 

Cathewe  was  not  agitated  in  the  least;  he  was 
not  even  interested.  There  pervaded  him  that 
peculiar  calm  which  is  the  aftermath  of  defeat. 
Nothing  Mansfield  might  say  could  have  the  power 
to  ruffle  the  mental  attitude  of  Digby  Hallowell's 
son.  Indeed,  some  flash  of  prescience  conveyed 
to  him  that  Dunleigh  Mansfield  was  about  to 
empty  the  bottom  of  the  sack,  confront  him  with 
the  history  of  his  father.  Half  an  hour  later  he 
stood  at  the  side  of  his  enemy's  cot.  With  his 
sound  arm,  Mansfield  indicated  the  chair;  and 
his  victim  sat  down. 

"Sit  close.  I  can't  talk  clearly.  I  want  you 
to  hear  distinctly  what  I  have  to  say." 

Cathewe  drew  the  chair  to  the  head  of  the  cot. 
"I  have  an  idea  that  it  relates  to  my  father." 

"In  my  coat  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  is  a  long 
envelope.  Get  it." 

Cathewe  obeyed;  but  as  he  raised  the  coat  to 
search  the  pockets,  the  pungent  odour  of  fire  and 
water  struck  his  nose.  He  had  almost  forgotten 
the  fine,  unselfish  deed  of  the  night  before.  He 
found  the  envelope. 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        275 

"Open  it,"  ordered  the  man  on  the  cot. 

One  glance  confirmed  Cathewe's  suspicions. 
The  envelope  contained  the  complete  history  of 
the  trial  and  conviction  of  Digby  Hallo  well. 

"Well?"  he  said,  calmly. 

"Ready  to  admit  that  I  hold  you  in  the  hollow 
of  my  hand?" 

"No.  No  man  shall  ever  hold  me  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  But  you  force  me  to  move  on;  and 
I  was  beginning  to  consider  Bannister  as  my  home. 
It's  the  only  American  home  I've  ever  known.  I 
was  born  on  the  other  side.  Anyhow,  I  fought 
squarely." 

"Meaning  that  I  did  not?" 

Cathewe  tapped  the  envelope.  "Do  you  call 
this  fair?" 

"It  was  the  only  weapon  I  could  find." 

"This  doesn't  join  with  the  fine  thing  you  did 
last  night.  After  all,  I  must  admit  that  you 
puzzle  me." 

"I  return  the  compliment.  You  had  unlimited 
resources.  How  did  it  happen  that  Betty  was 
able  to  buy  the  control?" 

"Evidently  I  wanted  the  Herald  for  myself — 
wanted  something  not  touched  by  the  taint. 
There  was,  unknown  to  me,  a  strain  of  vanity 
in  my  make-up.  I  take  it  that  the  significance 
of  this  interview  is,  that  I  sell  out  my  interest  and 


276         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

move  on,  or  you  will  print  the  story  in  the  Times. 
Am  I  correct?" 

"Will  you  fight?" 

"I  might,  if  I  stood  alone.  But  my  mother 
has  been  through  enough." 

Silence. 

"You're  an  odd  young  man!  You  came  here 
originally  because  you  thought  you  loved  my 
daughter." 

"It's  in  my  nature  to  play  the  fool  at  times." 

"A  man  who  knows  what  he  wants  when  he 
sees  it.  I  like  that  sort  for  my  lieutenants.  Oh, 
don't  be  alarmed.  I'm  not  offering  you  a  job. 
I  am  merely  classifying  you.  What  was  the  main 
idea,  anyhow?" 

"You  mean  regarding  the  money  my  father 
left?  To  give  it  back  to  the  poor.  To  make  the 
newspaper  a  bulwark  between  your  kind  and  mine. 
To  build  a  great  hospital,  endowed,  to  which  the 
poor  from  the  ends  of  the  world  might  come  and 
find  aid  without  cost.  A  great  free  dispensary 
where  the  unfortunate  woman  might  also  find 
succour  and  not  be  callously  sent  back  to  the  gutter 
with  her  baby.  The  newspaper  to  doctor  their 
minds  and  the  hospitals  to  doctor  their  bodies. 
To  rebuild  their  faith  in  humanity;  to  make  Amer- 
ican citizens  out  of  them.  Shall  I  put  this  envelope 
back  in  your  coat?" 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        277 

"No.  She  sat  there  in  that  chair  all  night, 
holding  my  hand.  Toward  morning  she  slept. 
I  was  in  a  good  deal  of  pain.  It  was  very  still.  I 
fell  to  thinking.  Instead  of  counting  sheep  jumping 
over  a  fence,  I  looked  myself  over,  from  your  point 
of  view,  from  her  point  of  view,  happen  she  learns 
the  truth.  I  did  not  summon  you  to  threaten 
you.  Still,  I  had  to  test  you.  Your  chin  is  still 
up,  and  that's  the  sign  I  needed.  I  don't  want 
that  envelope.  Destroy  the  stuff.  Make  Ban- 
nister your  home;  build  your  free  dispensary. 
What  I  really  wanted  was  ...  to  have  you 
.  .  .  take  my  hand." 

"To  shake  hands?"  cried  Cathewe,  figuratively 
swept  off  his  feet. 

"Why  not?  I  needed  a  licking,  and  you  were 
the  only  man  in  the  world  who  had  the  courage 
to  attempt  it.  I'm  no  fool.  I  know  men.  I 
want  to  be  the  friend  of  a  man  who,  in  these  hard, 
matter-of-fact  days,  has  the  courage  to  walk 
where  angels  fear  to  tread.  A  smile  accompanies 
that,  but  it's  not  visible  to  you  on  account  of  these 
bandages.  A  curious  idea  thrust  me  into  that 
shack  last  night.  Oh,  yes;  I  saw  the  poor  little 
tikes,  and  was  glad  to  save  them.  But  that  isn't 
it.  I  fought  you  because  I  was  afraid  of  you. 
You  were  a  menacing  wedge  between  me  and  my 
daughter.  On  the  day  she  learned  the  truth,  I 


878         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

might  lose  her.  Nothing  else  matters  now  but 
her  love.  She  is  extremely  imaginative.  A  deed 
like  last  night's  would  appeal  to  her.  She  would 
always  have  that  moment  to  throw  into  the  scales. 
She  has  opened  all  the  doors  of  my  mind  and  my 
heart;  I  can  see  and  feel.  Yesterday  I  would  not 
have  understood  you;  to-day  I  do.  There's  an- 
other secret  in  that  envelope.  You  overlooked  it. 
You  are  Cottar,  the  novelist.  But  I  am  offering 
my  hand  to  the  son  of  Digby  Hallo  well.  Will 
you  take  it?" 

The  strength  of  the  hand  that  closed  over  his 
caused  a  flash  of  stinging  pain.  The  wince  had 
puckered  the  burns. 

"You  understand?" 

"Yes.     She  has  made  all  these  things  possible." 

"That  makes  our  understanding  perfect.  Her 
beauty  is  the  least  of  her.  Do  you  remember 
you  said  that?  You  saw  in  a  glance  what  it  took 
me  three  years  to  find  out.  Old  Johnny  Maddox 
told  me  to  give  Betty  what  she  wanted;  to  give 
him  what  he  wanted;  to  find  out  what  you  wanted 
and  give  it  to  you.  This  morning  she  spoke  of 
some  letters.  Very  clever  of  you.  She  didn't 
suspect,  naturally.  Just  the  sort  of  romance  that 
would  appeal  to  her.  You  and  I  are  going  to  make 
Bannister  a  perfect  city.  But  I  must  do  my  share 
in  my  own  fashion.  I  simply  can't  have  her  know; 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        279 

at  least,  until  I  have  made  substantial  progress. 
You  shall  have  your  paper  back,  of  course.  I 
am  growing  tired.  Just  a  little  more.  You  could 
have  come  to  me  and  demanded  I  fulfill  my  end 
of  that  mad  bargain.  You  were  honest,  and  you 
declined.  Your  whimsicality  is  on  the  surface; 
underneath  you  are  unchangeable.  So  it  occurs 
to  me  that  if  you  gave  up  Betty,  it  was  not  that 
you  had  ceased  to  care.  Am  I  right?  " 

"Yes." 

"As  a  man  cares  but  once?" 

"But  once." 

"Then     .     .     .    go  and  find  her." 

"You  mean  that?" 

"Why  not?  You  are  the  son  of  Digby  Hallo- 
well,  but  she  is  the  daughter  of  Dunleigh  Mansfield. 
Between  these  two  fathers,  where's  the  choice? 
I  merely  stayed  within  the  law  and  your  father 
played  the  game  outside.  I  threw  away  all  the 
glorious  hours  that  are  before  you.  I  sent 
Betty  to  France  because  I  didn't  care  to  be  both- 
ered with  her.  Find  her,  and  when  you  find  her, 
tell  her  I  sent  you.  And  then  .  .  .  both  of 
you  .  .  .  come  back  here!" 

Cathewe's  taxi  went  up  Polygon  Hill  after  the 
manner  of  the  tank,  now  so  celebrated  in  history — 
slowly,  ponderously,  and  heartrendingly.  Street •• 
cars  got  in  the  way,  other  taxis,  lumber  and  coal 


280         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

wagons,  and  pedestrians.  Eventually  he  reached 
the  Mansfield  place. 

The  butler,  upon  opening  the  door,  eyed  him 
with  repellent  loyalty. 

"Miss  Mansfield  is  not  at  home,  sir";  and  sug- 
gestively started  the  door  toward  the  latch. 

"Just  a  moment.  I  am  sent  by  Mr.  Mansfield 
himself.  He  wishes  me  to  find  his  daughter.'* 

"I  do  not  know  where  she  went,  sir.  It  is  prob- 
able that  she  is  with  Miss  Maddox.  The  doctor 
was  here  a  while  gone." 

"May  I  use  the  telephone?" 

Reluctantly  the  butler  ushered  the  enemy  into 
the  study  and  indicated  the  telephone.  His  ges- 
ture was  full  of  suppressed  indignation. 

The  Maddox  maid  replied  to  the  first  call.  No; 
Miss  Mansfield  had  gone  across  to  the  Cathewes'. 
The  second  call  was  not  answered,  though  he  kept 
Central  busy  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Vaguely 
alarmed,  he  returned  to  the  taxi.  In  the  end,  he 
found  himself  in  his  own  hallway,  breathless  with 
the  chase. 

Music.  She  had  come  to  hear  his  mother  play. 
This  accounted  for  the  unanswered  telephone  call. 
Suddenly  he  felt  shaky  all  over.  Now  that  he 
was  here,  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do. 
He  feared  the  bewildering  turn  of  events.  It  was 
incredible  that  fate  should  relent  absolutely,  that 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        281 

she  hadn't  some  shabby  trick  up  her  sleeve.    But 
an  old  quatrain  recurred  to  him: 

He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch 

To  win  or  lose  it  all. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  living  room  and  stood 
on  the  threshold.  Never  before  had  he  heard  his 
mother  play  the  Fourth  Ballade  with  such  fire  and 
passion.  She  swept  through  the  magnificent  finale 
with  a  brilliance  of  technique  and  feeling  that 
rivalled  De  Pachmann  at  his  best. 

And  the  girl  there,  seated  on  the  floor,  her  ex- 
quisite profile,  against  the  dark  wine  of  the  rose- 
wood, as  beautifully  defined  as  a  cameo!  Her 
eyes  were  closed  in  dreamy  ecstasy. 

Here,  after  what  had  taken  place  last  night! 
There  could  be  only  one  meaning:  that  she  knew 
everything.  Maddox!  She  had  sent  for  the 
doctor  and  in  some  manner  had  forced  the  truth 
from  him.  On  top  of  this  came  the  recollection 
of  the  cub  reporter's  confession  of  having  sent 
Betty  a  complete  series  of  clippings.  She  had 
confronted  Maddox  with  them,  and  the  old  fellow 
had  told  her  the  truth.  And  somehow  he  must 
prevail  upon  her  never  to  let  her  father  know. 
Here! — because  she  knew  also  that  he  was  the 


282         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

author  of  those  letters!  Hadn't  she  come  from 
Nancy's?  Out  of  that  abysmal  gloom  of  two 
hours  gone,  this  miraculous  sunshine! 

The  performer  dropped  her  hands.  The  piano 
was  still  singing  as  she  turned  her  head. 

"Sonny?" 

Betty  opened  her  eyes,  and  slowly  rose  to  her 
feet,  numb  with  an  inexplicable  terror,  not  unlike 
that  which  childhood  finds  in  dark  rooms.  What 
had  happened?  This:  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  seen  the  man  who  had  written  those  wonderful 
letters — the  exquisite  proems  to  the  idyl  of  this 
hour.  She  had  come  boldly  into  his  house  in  the 
pursuit  of  happiness.  She  saw  now  the  immodesty 
of  the  act.  The  knowledge  sent  all  the  blood  into 
her  heart,  then  flung  it  into  her  cheeks — burgundy 
in  an  alabaster  cup.  Always  he  would  think  that 
she  had  sought  him.  The  shame  of  it ! 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  piano,  staring. 
Tableau.  Then  she  reached  backward,  toward 
the  bench,  toward  the  arms  she  wanted,  needed. 
She  was  afraid.  She  turned  desperately — to  find 
that  she  had  been  betrayed.  The  bench  was 
vacant.  Mrs.  Cathewe  had  stolen  quietly  from  the 
room. 

"I     ...     She  has  gone!  "Betty  stammered. 

He  crossed  the  room  quickly,  but  he  did  not 
touch  her.  "  There  is  no  doubt  in  your  mind  ?  " 


"  She  crept  back  into  his  arms,  all  her  mischief  gone. 
4  Love  me  always  like  that!  .  .  .  And  don't  be  afraid 
of  Daddy1  " 


The  Man  With  Three  Names        283 

" Doubt  of  what?" — beginning  to  recover  her 
poise. 

"Of  me?  That  I  love  you,  that  I  loved  you 
the  first  time  I  saw  you?" 

"Which  of  you  three  is  talking?" 

"Which  of  ...  What  do  you  mean?" — 
bewildered. 

"Is  it  Brandon  Cathewe,  George  Cottar,  or 
Brandon  Hallo  well?" 

"All  three  of  us.  We  all  love  you!  Can  you 
care,  just  a  little?" 

"But  you  gave  me  up!" 

"Only  physically.  For  weeks  I've  been  torn 
by  wild  horses." 

"I'm  glad  of  that!"  — now  sure  of  herself,  of 
him,  of  all  the  world. 

"Glad  that  I  was  unhappy?" 

"Wasn't  I  unhappy,  too?    Didn't  you  jilt  me?" 

"Do  you  care?" 

"Well  .  .  .  perhaps."  A  pause.  "I'm  be- 
ginning to  wonder  if  you  really  wrote  those  letters." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  the  writer  of  those  beautiful  love-letters 
wouldn't  stand  as  you  do,  just  asking  questions." 

"What  would  he  do?"  — falling  into  her  mood. 

"He  would  sweep  me  into  his  arms,  kiss  me,  put 
me  on  his  horse  and  ride  away  .  .  .  and  ask 
questions  .  .  ." 


284         The  Man  With  Three  Names 

"Afterward!" 

When  she  pressed  back  from  him,  she  was 
breathless.  "And  now  I'm  suspicious." 

"Suspicious?" 

"You  did  that     .     .     .    overly  well!" 

"The  wonder  of  you!" 

She  crept  back  into  his  arms,  all  her  mischief 
gone.  "Love  me  always  like  that!  .  .  .  And 
don't  be  afraid  of  Daddy." 

"I'm  not,"  he  replied.  "Your  father  has  made 
all  this  possible.  He  sent  me  to  you." 

"He  did?  I  love  him!  And  he  shall  never 
know  that  I  know.  To  want  to  do  fine  and  noble 
things  because  he  has  learned  to  love  me!"  An- 
other pause.  "Is  there  anything  now  on  Jupiter 
you  want?" 

There  was  only  one  way  to  answer  that. 


THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PEESS,     GABDEN    CITY,  NEW    YORK 


A     000128469     4 


